Kiss it better
by Inkpot satsuma
Summary: Post-8x23. With Sam not dying anymore, Dean takes care of a newly human Cas. The trio gets used to living together, Castiel adjusting to humanity, with hunts, fallen angels and Crowley occasionally disrupting the semi-domesticity. Freshly established Destiel, Dean playing doctor to Cas and Sam, fluff, feels.
1. Dragonfly's eye

**Sooo - 8x23 anyone? Wooo! It was amazing, traumatising, epic and wonderful! And now Dean _has to_ take care of Cas, teach him to be a real-life boy! Ah, so many things happened, I'm still reeling (which is why the first scene of this fic might feel weird)!**

**Anyway, I instantly thought of something, and had to type it up. I will probably write more chapters :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or the characters, all rights to CW and Eric Kripke. All I own are two seasons on DVD.**

**Enjoy and let me know what you think!**

* * *

**1. Dragonfly's eye**

Dean watches as the doctor experimentally moves Castiel's foot, keeping a gentle but steady hold on his ankle, and he bites the inside of his cheek, till the pain overpowers the dizzying nausea he's feeling. It's like walking on a floor made of rubber and breathing air that is too thin, and he's trying to do something about his damn heart that keeps feeling like it's about to flip out of his chest.

It's his greatest nightmare, and it's looming just ahead of him, so close, sneering into his face, and he's standing on the edge of a cliff, just about to fall right into that damn nightmare…

Beside him, Sam coughs, but a glance assures Dean that his brother is fine. He's recovering from all the trials shit, but it's a slow process. Still, he's miles better now than he was when _that_ happened. When the angels fell. He can still remember it, the amazing, terrifying and tantalising sight of fire raining down from the skies, balls of flaming light plummeting to the earth, dripping from the celestial heights. He can still hear the roar of flames and feel the terror of thinking that Cas is among them.

"Hmm," the doctor leans in a bit closer, frowning, and Dean feels a new wave of panic come onto him, ripping him back into the present.

He bites on his cheek again, teeth digging into the soft flesh, and the pain flares up. It's stinging, rough and unbearable, but it grounds him. He's not gonna bend over and throw up, he's _not_! Even if this is what he keeps feeling like doing.

This cannot be happening. No. No, damn it, fuck it, _no_! Cas is human, with his grace stolen from him, that he can deal with, but a few things have happened, a few small, but uncanny things. And now… now Cas is at a doctor's, with his foot seriously injured.

And it's 2013.

Dean feels sick.

There is a knock on the door, and a perky nurse strolls in, handing over a large grey envelope to the doctor who then proceeds to pull out an X-ray photo and tuck it into the upper frame of a light screen.

White-and-grey lines, a mangled coil of blurred shapes, and Dean scans it frantically with his own eyes, searching for the one thing he wants most not to find – a bright white crack that would seal Castiel's fate. And Dean's.

Sam coughs again, and Dean feels his brother's hand grip his shoulder. He whips his head to the side, looking at him, but Sam seems calm – worried, but calm, his hazel eyes telling Dean to '_relax, dude'_. Dean swallows, barely managing the feat over a tight, hard ball that has formed in his throat, and looks at Castiel. The former angel is sitting on the examining table, very calm, with a slight tension that has entered his shoulders as he was forced to acclimatise to his newfound humanity. Dean can see his profile, and he stares for a moment.

How is it possible? How does he do it, how is it that even though he is human now, his eyes are as _celestial_, endless, all-encompassing and _eternal_ as they always were? Dean thinks he knows – it's because that was never an angel trait, as he previously thought. No, it was always Castiel.

"Well, the foot isn't broken," the doctor finally looks back into Castiel's eyes. "You've damaged his Peroneus Longus tendon though, but that's mild and manageable, we're gonna get you laid up for two weeks and you'll be fine."

The barely flickering light of relief in Dean is suddenly flooded, smothered by a newly rising wave of nausea, and this time he can't hold it back. He bolts, running out of the room, and doesn't even register a frantic sprint to the bathroom, his legs feeling like they sink into mud as he tries to run.

It's the cold, white faience of the bathroom sink in his grip that makes him notice he's reached it. His hands are clammy, sliding over the slick surface, and he feels something tight and slimy rising up his throat, squeezing his chest, and he leans down rapidly, a gag reflex clenching up his oesophagus. It locks, and he can't draw in a breath, but can't vomit either, and a shiver begins running up his back as he abruptly feels cold.

No.

_This is not happening_!

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

He's frantically trying to push it out, but he's suddenly deaf, except for sickeningly clear, close words resonating in his memory, spoken in a voice that was so familiar and yet so alien.

"_Broke my foot, laid me up for two months!"_

Jesus…

No. _No_.

He gasps in a breath, ragged and uneven, and he shuts his eyes closed. No. This is not happening, and it _won't_. No pain meds, no Croatoan, no Camp Chitaqua. It won't happen, not in any variation.

Stubbornness is his coping mechanism, so he repeats the resolution in his head a few more times, until the image of the dishevelled, scruffy and stoned Castiel finally goes away. He's calm, steady, and he carefully measures every movement as he turns the water on, cups some of it into his palms, and splashes onto his face. He reaches for a paper towel and wipes the water off, focusing on breathing steadily.

He looks up into the mirror and stares at himself with stern certainty and determination. Yeah. That's how it's gonna work. No panic attacks, no fucking weakness. They're gonna take Cas home, put him in bed (and probably tie him down to it, because the fucker won't sit still even if it's best for him), wait two weeks, and he'll be as good as new.

"That's the plan, Winchester," he tells his reflection, and then turns around and strolls out of the bathroom.

"Dean! Dude, are you OK.?" Sam's eyes are wide and concerned, complete with the pained eyebrows and pressed lips. He's in the corridor, clearly looking for Dean, and he has Castiel's arm slung over his shoulders as he tries to support him.

"Yeah, fine," Dean says in a clipped tone that (he hopes) communicates he's not up for any arguments and heart-to-heats, and walks over to the two of them. "Got some prescriptions and stuff? Good to go?" he asks, unhooking Castiel's arm from around Sam's shoulders, and putting it around his own, leaning to the side so as to take as much weight off Castiel's injured foot as possible. He wraps his other arm around Cas' waist, pulling him close and staying like this for a moment.

"Dean?" he hears a soft murmur of Cas' gravelly voice in his ear, but he just glances at him and shakes his head minutely. _Later_, he communicates, and Cas understands, nodding slowly, large blue eyes attentive and comprehending.

That look – intense, filled with light, and so raw and opened – is so very _Cas_ that Dean feels something lift from his chest. Castiel is still here – human, robbed of his grace by betrayal, ridden with guilt, adjusting slowly, but _here_. And he's still himself, and maybe even more than ever, now that he no longer questions whether his free will is truth or illusion.

Dean feels the corners of his lips twitch in a smile, and he runs a loving hand through Cas' black hair. He'd kiss him, but not in the middle of a clinic.

"Uh… yeah, got everything," Sam ignores their moment and flips through a few small paper pieces covered in hieroglyphics, showing them to Dean.

"Oh – dude! Why can't doctors write normally?" Dean bitches.

"It's OK., I remember the names. Come on."

"You good?" Dean asks Cas softly as they slowly walk after Sam, exiting the building. Blue eyes flash to his.

"I believe it is I who should be asking you that," Castiel murmurs. "Dean – are you unwell?"

"I'm fine," Dean replies, narrowing his eyes in determination. "Watch it, there's a step…"

"I can see, and don't deflect."

"I'm fine, Cas, drop it," Dean snaps warningly, and then focuses on getting his Cas (that's what he is, he's no longer an angel… he's Cas. He's Dean's Cas.) down the two steps outside the main entrance.

They hobble across the parking lot, and Dean gets Cas into the backseat of the Impala. Sam gets into the passenger seat, and Dean gets behind the wheel and readjusts his rear-view mirror so it frames Castiel instead of the road the car leaves behind.

Catching Cas' eyes through the reflective surface, he starts the engine.

* * *

"There you go," Dean steps back and grins. He has to, because Cas looks ridiculously domestic.

He's stretched out on the sofa in the Batcave, his injured foot propped up on the armrest per the doctor's orders, his upper back supported by a few pillows stacked against the other end of the sofa. He has a blanket draped over his middle, most of the fleecy fabric drooping onto the floor, he has a remote control, he has a book spread opened on his chest, and he has a burger, beer, water and orange juice (with ice) on the coffee table. All that's missing is a thermometer, and Dean is tempted to add it just for kicks and then snap a picture with his phone.

Castiel's hair is wild, mussed and sticking out in absolutely all directions, and his eyes are wide and confused – he looks like he's worried he won't be allowed to leave the sofa for those two weeks, and it just makes Dean's grin wider.

"Thank you…" Castiel says slowly, curling it up almost into a question.

"Now you just lie back and get healin'," Dean directs.

"Uh… I'll try," there's such serious commitment in Cas' voice that Dean sighs, his heart warm.

Metatron stole Castiel's grace two months ago. Since then, in a world riddled with fallen angels, Castiel's been adapting to his compulsory humanity. It has it's ups and downs, but generally he's doing pretty damn good, Dean thinks. He likes eating and taking showers, and he's great with all sorts of weapons – he's spent all of his life as an angel warrior, after all. His love for TV hasn't changed, if anything it grew, and he also loves reading, which of course means he and Sammy have formed a geek book club and swap books and shit.

He gets frustrated sometimes with the slowness of human transportation, human walking and running pace, his human weakness – even though there is some small, residual angel strength in him. But he's getting better with adjusting. Still, it damn near stabbed through Dean's heart to see him walk up to a statue that was sitting on something they needed, and realise he can't push it out of the way.

Dean walks around the coffee table and crouches down before the sofa, levelling himself with Castiel's face. The blue eyes peer at him with some concern and discomfort, but there's also softness of acceptance, and something more, something warm and liquid and open, offered up for Dean to see, and it's so trusting that Dean feels his heart clench as he reaches out, cupping Cas' cheek in his hand, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. Castiel leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed, and he breathes a peaceful sigh, like all of his pain and problems and shit went away, and Dean almost can't stand it, because it's _not_ what Cas should be feeling, it's not something Dean is capable of doing – taking his problems away. He wants to, and he does as much as he can, plucking as many obstacles and issues out of Castiel's path as he can, but he… he's just not good enough to make Cas' world right. He's not worthy enough. Cas shouldn't feel like his world is right just because Dean is with him.

It's the other way around.

He leans in, closing his eyes, feeling the warmth of Castiel's face as he inches closer, and he seeks out his lips, kissing them softly, and they part, a quiet, whispered breath escaping from Cas' throat, brushing silkily over Dean's lips. He kisses Cas again, the full, plush lips giving in supply under the pressure, and he slips his hand from Cas' cheek to the back of his neck, angling his head back gently as he deepens the kiss, Cas giving him access. He tastes so sweet and warm, like a Saturday afternoon in summer, with peace and small tingle of excitement, and Dean explores his mouth languidly, tongues sliding together, following known, familiar paths.

A quiet hum sounds in Castiel's throat, reaching Dean's tongue with sweet resonance, and Dean gathers it, moving closer, almost climbing onto the sofa. He pulls away just barely, something pleasurable fluttering in his chest at the sight of Cas – eyes closed, intense bliss as he leans in, following Dean with a small sound of protest.

Dean smiles, pressing a kiss into the corner of his full lips, and lays a soft, tender trail along his cheek, taking in the fresh, enticing scent that is so purely Castiel. Cas purrs, the sound making a lot of Dean's blood rush rapidly south. He nuzzles his throat, before dropping a small kiss in the hollow at its base, Cas' head tilting back, and Dean kisses the soft flesh on the underside of his jaw. It's only the injured foot that keeps Dean from straddling Cas and ravishing those delicious, slender tendons of his throat before taking this whole thing to bed.

Castiel's hand wanders over Dean's back, warm, brushing over just the right spots with just the right pressure, till it makes its way over to his left shoulder, where it slips under the sleeve of his tee. Cas' hand aligns with the mark it had left long ago in the depths of Hell, and Dean can feel a pleasurable, fiery current run through his skin, seeping into his blood – it feels like tiny particles of light are coursing through his system, and he loves when Castiel does it.

He pulls away again and moves over Castiel's head, peering into his face. Large blue eyes open and look back into his, and Dean feels a corner of his lips quirk up.

"Is this what's called 'kissing it better'?" Cas asks, a hint of cheekiness brushing over his lips and sparking a twinkle in his eyes.

Dean huffs out a chuckle, petting through his black hair.

"You bet your ass it is."

"I think I'll need regular dosage," Cas has a very brazen, deadpan and cheeky, screwing-with-your-head sense of humour that's been developing over the years while he still was an angel, and he seems to enjoy expanding it now that he is human.

Dean grins, walking over to the other end of the sofa, and gently runs a hand over the back of Castiel's injured foot. It's been de-socked, washed, treated with painkiller ointment and disinfected for good measure (no one's taking any chances here, and Cas has a small cut on the ankle from the accident – he stepped into a basically invisible hole in the ground and got his foot jammed), and is now propped up. Dean smiles, gently running his thumb over the arch at the bottom of Cas' foot, gingerly tracing the injured tendon.

Castiel gives a small snort and his foot twitches – he's ticklish, and is now grinning, giggling on an involuntary reflex, his eyes shining. He's got a serious bedhead, he's wearing a mangled T-shirt from Dean's band collection (this one is AC/DC with tour dates on the back) and jeans washed over and over to the point of comfy softness, and he looks so devastatingly, damn _precious_ that Dean's seriously afraid his heart will legitimately _melt_.

Breathing a soft chuckle that may or may not almost involve a sob, Dean gently wraps his hands around Cas' foot, keeping it in place, and looks into Cas' face, taking it in – eyes sparkling, white teeth peeking in a small, peacefully fading grin in between lush lips, mussed hair, book on chest.

He's perfect.

Of course, this is the moment when Sam has to stroll in, carrying a tray of food and meds and some other stuff, and he stops before the sofa, looking at the two of them, and a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. Dean rolls his eyes and walks to the other end of the sofa again, perching his ass on the armrest and dropping his hand to card through Cas' hair.

Sam's been supportive of his and Castiel's… well, whatever the hell it is they have. Point is, Sam's been supportive since day one, a little over a month ago, when Dean, in Sam's words, 'finally pulled his head out of his ass'. Sure, Dean's glad Sammy is okay with him and Cas, but he seriously could do with a little less of all the bragging about how it was 'so obvious' and how Sam 'always knew', which Sam felt obliged to spread around for the first week or so.

"Got the pain meds, Cas," Sam informs the new member of the human club. "They should help."

The phrase 'pain meds' sends a flare of returning unease through Dean. It's like the nice moment from just a few seconds before is now distant in time and dulled. Story of his life, actually.

"Hang on, lemme see," he demands, getting off the sofa and snatching the two pill bottles from Sam. He quickly but thoroughly reads through the ingredients, and feels a cold lurch grab at his stomach when he reads two of the substances. "No. Throw this shit out," he demands.

"What?"

Glancing at Cas, Dean grabs Sam by the arm and drags him out of the room and out of earshot. Once there, he holds up the bottles before his brother's face.

"We're not giving him this," he mutters in an instinctively quieter voice. "Stay with him, I'm gonna go to the Wal-Mart or something, he's getting nothing else but ibuprofen or paracethamol or other supermarket shit, and not even one pill above the recommended limit."

"The hell, Dean?" Sam looks incredulous. "The doctor prescribed this!"

"Screw the doctor."

"Dean?" Cas' voice comes from the other room.

"Hold on!" Dean calls back, and turns to Sam again. "Just – trust me on this, man, OK.? Just trust me. How are _you_, by the way?" he nods at Sam indicatively.

Sam just shrugs.

"Normal, I guess. Cas said it would be a slow trip. But yeah, I'm doing OK."

The night the angels fell was one of the worst nights of Dean's life. Sam was dying in convulsions in his arms, and when Castiel finally showed up, guided by Dean's frantic shouts, he confessed he's human and cannot mojo Sam back to health. Right then, Dean felt as if someone yanked the earth from under his feet.

But angel or not, Castiel still knew all there was to know about Enochian sigils, symbols and medicine, and even though he was human, he still was able to coax some power out of the angel language, simply because Enochian was power on its own. With a lot of effort, a lot of scribbles and some ingredients, with a lot of symbols done in a marker all over Sam's arms and chest, Cas and Dean had managed to get him stable. Helped with the Enochian sigils, Sam was slowly put on a reverse course of his trial sickness – from worst to bad to better. Two months in, he's doing OK., just still coughing a lot, but the blood went away two weeks ago, and he now he gets feverish just sometimes in the evenings. Another two months or so, and he should be fine.

"OK., good," Dean slaps a hand on Sam's shoulder and nods. "So, stay with Cas, I'll go get the meds."

"Nah, it's OK., I'll go," Sam says. "You stay with him."

"You sure?" Dean frowns. "You're up for it?"

"Dude, it's a ride to pharmacy or supermarket, I can handle it," Sam rolls his eyes. "You go stay with your little boyfriend," he smirks, and Dean rolls his eyes, but can't stop his ears from burning. Sam, being the little bitch he is, of course notices it and grins.

"Fine, go," Dean grumbles. "Take the blade, just in case," he reminds.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sam raises a hand as he retreats.

With a lot of fallen angels around, an angel blade is right about the most valuable possession for a hunter nowadays. And lucky for them, Cas kept his when he was pushed down to the earth.

Moderately calmed, Dean veers off into the bathroom, struggles a little with the caps on the bottles (damn child-proof shit!) and shakes the pills out of both bottles into the toilet, making sure they all get flushed. Satisfied, he throws the bottles into the bin and heads back to Cas.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks, maybe a little too light-heartedly.

"Dean," Castiel shifts a little on the sofa, trying to half-sit up, and Dean knows the look on his face – they're gonna talk, and Dean's not gonna get out of it.

"Hmm?" hell, that doesn't mean he's not gonna _try_.

"Dean," now there's this firm steadiness that sort of just _forces_ Dean to look at Cas. Huh. That's another thing he used to attribute to angel mojo and stuff. "I know why you threw out the medication."

Well, crap.

He just stands there, looking at Cas, because he doesn't really have anything to say. He's the one who started the talk, so he's got to be the one to make sure it keeps going. Dean's not inclined.

"There's… nothing to be worried about," Castiel says, and Dean looks at his foot. Slightly swollen, and though the angle doesn't allow him to see it right now, he knows there is a bruise where the injured tendon is hidden under the skin. "It's a variable."

Castiel's statement is simple, emotionally indifferent and colourless, and it makes Dean look at him, slightly puzzled. Castiel sighs, and reaches out with both arms, almost like a child wanting to be hugged, but Dean reads his language very well, and knows it's an invitation. So he walks over closer, sitting sideways on the edge of the sofa, facing Cas whose hand lands on his thigh, touch warm and reassuring. His eyes – even more so.

"Have you got… any idea how many variables Zachariah had to establish to conjure up that vision of 2014 and Camp Chitaqua?" Castiel asks in a soft voice. "How many alternatives? And how generous he was to himself in his assumptions that things would happen one way and not another? How very untrue to many characters he drafted those events? How many choices he made others make just because it suited his visions, not because they were true to those people's personalities, situations and ideals? How much he tampered with 'what if'?"

Cas reaches up and gently runs a hand through Dean's hair, letting his fingertips trail down his neck as he lowers his hand back down. The caress is soft, placating, soothing.

"You don't," Castiel answers calmly for Dean. "But I do. Zachariah was _very_ self-obliging in assuming that certain people would act certain ways. This," he points to his injured foot, "is a variable. Not connected to his schemes. It's an isolated event now. It has no bearing on what will happen."

Dean bites on his lower lip, frowning and looking down at the sofa. In his line of sight, there is Castiel's blanket, his hand on his thigh, and a hint of the dark grey T-shirt draped over his slender torso.

"Cas… I have to," he looks up, almost apologetic. He slowly shakes his head. "I have to."

I have to make sure you're OK. That you _will be_ OK. I have to make sure that thing never happens. I have to look after you. I have to make sure you're as happy as you can be.

I love you.

Castiel nods, slowly, and Dean knows he's received all the things he didn't say out loud. But the communication between them never was _just_ words. It always had more.

He puts his hand over Castiel's, and squeezes it.

"Let me?"

"Of course," Cas nods. "And it will be fine, Dean. It's just a variable. Without others, it's meaningless in the grand scheme of things."

"Dragonfly's eye, huh?" Dean smirks, remembering cross-legged Cas preaching orgy to a handful of eager girls.

Castiel's lips twitch minutely, a brazen gleam passing through his eyes.

"Yes. And because I know you found it interesting… when I'm well, I can teach something about the tantric methods."

Dean's jaw drops and he feels his face burn. Though he wonders how, because he's fairly sure most of his body's blood is currently gathered in his groin.

Cas is wearing this half-smirk that sometimes appears on his face and reminds Dean that his once-angel can be a really sneaky son of a bitch when he wants to. He clears his throat.

"Well, uh… not to be self-serving, but get better, Cas," he grins.

Castiel smiles and turns on the TV. Dean makes himself more comfortable. They wait for Sam, watching some soap opera, Casiel warm against Dean's side, Dean's hand petting through his hair.

And, like quite a few times over the last two months, Dean thinks it's going to be OK.

* * *

**Ah, I wrote this thing in one sitting! If I add more chapters, there will be a lot of fluff and Dean playing doctor to both Cas and Sam, but also I might venture into the threads of Crowley, Kevin and the fallen angels.**

**Again - epic season finale, anyone? :D**

**Anyway - reviews are beyond cherished!**


	2. What is a reward

**Second chapter, as promised features Crowley (well, in a way) and starts prodding at the fallen angels thing. This fic is meant mostly as a domestic-fluff-riddled soother after the amazing and traumatising finale, but some plot will go on in the back, I hope you'll like it :)**

**Also, great-big thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favourited and followed - you guys made my day :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**2. What is a reward**

"No. I said, no! Forget it! And quit calling me!"

Dean glances towards his brother who strolls into the room, mobile pressed to his ear, mighty scowl of pain on his face, free hand running through his hair in exasperation. Beside Dean, Castiel shifts a little on the sofa, snuggling closer into Dean's side, and he lets him – dude has to get comfy and not damage the tendon further, right? It's not like Dean loves snuggling with Cas… it really isn't!

"No way! No, I'm not telling you where we are! Because in a few days or weeks you're gonna turn again and rip our throats out! No- Just- get lost! And _stop calling me_!"

Sam jerks the phone away from his ear and disconnects, then furiously shoves the device into his jeans pocket.

"Crowley?" Dean asks, looking at his brother away from the TV screen. Sam nods, sighing as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Dude, how does he keep getting your number?" Dean marvels in incredulity.

"I don't know, I don't wanna know," Sam says decisively.

"Was he crying again?"

"Yeah…" Sam's voice is weary and tortured.

Dean can't help but snicker. Ever since the interrupted third trial, Crowley's unfinished treatment left him as a bizarre human-demon hybrid. They avoid contact with him as much as they can, but he keeps calling Sam, and it seems he's gone severely bipolar – one time he's a sentimental, wailing human in need of friends and redemption, and some time later he goes into brief demon mode, all vicious and hell-bent. Frankly, watched from a distance, it's friggin hilarious.

Of all three of them, Sam is the one most harassed by Crowley's human affections. Cas takes second place, Crowley keeps asking about him and begging Sam to let him talk to Cas over the phone, which of course Dean won't freaking have. Luckily, Crowley doesn't call Cas, even though he's got a phone – the thought probably never occurred to him, and Dean hopes it stays that way.

The least assaulted is Dean, and he's very grateful for that. Crowley called him only a couple of times, and eventually he's managed to change the number and phone and card in a way that apparently was too hard to trace. Sam has tried that several times, but Crowley always ends up finding his new number.

It's all weird like shit, but also hilarious, and Dean takes what he can get.

For example, right now he can't get his Cas' attention. Cas is reading, totally engrossed, something called _The Thief Lord_ by Cornelia Fünke – the book's got like 350 pages, and since last evening Cas has gone through over half of it. If he hadn't held him as he fell asleep in his bed, Dean would have sworn he spent the night reading, too.

So Dean is watching TV, sitting beside Cas. It's the third day since they've been to the doctor, and Cas is verging on cabin fever, for now luckily temporarily averted by the book. He's sitting today, his foot propped up on a chair pushed in front of the sofa for that purpose, and he's dead to the world, only occasionally reaching blindly to get something to drink.

(The beer has been confiscated by Sam who then bitched at Dean for giving Cas beer while he's on meds.)

With a sigh, Sam sinks onto the sofa beside Dean, staring absently at the TV screen for a moment. He coughs a little, and Dean's eyes instinctively flick over to him, examining, searching for any symptoms of worsening health. But no, Sam seems to be doing exactly what Castiel said he would – slowly, monotonously, getting better.

It's when Sam coughs again, this time a bit more severely, and simultaneously on Dean's other side Cas shifts a bit and groans as he twists his foot a bit, that the truth about the nature of Dean's existence hits home.

"I'm in a friggin' assisted living facility," he grumbles.

"What's for dinner?" Sam croaks out, and thumps a fist to his chest, clearing his throat. The treatment seems to work.

"Un-freaking-believable… You're not _that_ sick anymore, make something," it's not that he doesn't want to cook, he actually kinda likes it. It's that he's not Sam and Cas' damn housewife! There have to be some principles, dammit.

"I can help you, Dean," Castiel's blue eyes lift from the book, gazing hopefully into Dean's as he keeps a finger on a line he's stopped midway through.

"You can't, you're not supposed to stand and walk more than strictly necessary," Dean growls in a reminder, because Cas seems to conveniently forget that sometimes, usually explaining that 'I was just going to fetch a new book and didn't want to disturb you' when caught wandering around the Batcave, even when in a place not remotely close to the library's direction.

Which reminds him – Dean checks his watch to see if it's time to put painkiller and anti-swelling ointment on Cas' foot again. Still twenty minutes.

Cas is good in the kitchen, he actually seems to have a flair for cooking, and he looks pleased and content with the discovery. He even looks like he's on the verge of making it a hobby. It started with him watching Dean cook, volunteering to help, and steadily progressing to knowing his way around the kitchen. Sometimes his timing is a bit off when he has two or three different things in pots and pans simultaneously, and he always seems surprised when he realises something is about to burn, or miles away from being ready yet. Dean thinks it might be because he's not really 100% grasped the human time concept yet, but he's not saying anything.

They like cooking together, and they work well, minding things, keeping time, stirring, stealing kisses and tasty ingredients. A few times they got a bit carried away, one of which had ended with Sam walking in on them, lured by the smell of burning cookies in the oven – Dean's had Cas shirtless and practically laid back on the countertop while he was kissing him, pushing further in between Cas' legs, sweetened cocoa powder dusting his former angel's cheeks. He thinks he's never gonna forgive his brother for ruining the hot moment. Especially because now Cas is more guarded when they begin fooling around in the kitchen.

Damn. It's a shame Cas has to stay off his feet for at least four more days – after a week, he's apparently allowed to do some walking, but nothing extensive.

"Nah, I'll cook something by myself, 's OK.," he tells Cas, clapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he gets off the sofa. He can feel the vague shapes of Cas' bones under the flesh and fabric, and he quickly rubs a thumb over one of them in a brief caress.

Castiel looks somewhat disappointed, but obediently drops his eyes back to the book, and soon he's sucked in again. He got that book a few days before his injury, along with a few others in one of the second-hand bookstores he's taken to visiting. He's a fast reader and loves to read, which often leads to him and Sam babbling about books, dissecting characters or recounting favourite parts.

Dean ventures into the kitchen, does a brief inventory, makes a mental note to do a supply run soon, and throws together some ingredients that will make a meal that's probably not extremely fantastic, but quick to make and filling. He's in the process of seasoning the meat before it goes on the pan, when Sam slides into the kitchen.

"There was another one," he murmurs quietly, and Dean instantly drops one of the meat pieces onto the pan, letting the loud sizzle drown out whatever words might drift over to Castiel, however unlikely that is. He swallows.

"Close?" he asks, not turning around as he puts another piece onto the pan.

"Ten miles," there's a shrug of error margin in Sam's voice.

"Shit. Well, coulda been worse," Dean throws another piece, perhaps more forcefully than recommended. Some hot oil from the thin layer spread over the pan splashes and burns his hand in retaliation.

The fallen angels are pure anarchy. Not all survived the fall, and those who did, are roughly divided – some just vanished into the world, some do some crazy shit like killing, and others apparently try to find a way back up into Heaven, to take on Metatron and restore order.

Whenever Cas hears about the latter group, he spirals down into guilt and self-loathing again, but he also gets silent for a longer time, stares out a window, and… looks like he wants to help them.

That thought makes Dean's blood run cold. Yes, Cas screwed up. He made a bad call, he inadvertently brought about a shitload of trouble, but he also got screwed, got used and beaten up. After some thinking at the beginning, Dean decided to let go and agree that losing his grace was punishment enough for Castiel's stupidity. But as always, the ex-angel insists on beating himself up, on dwelling on his mistakes, and yeah, Dean gets that, he's been there, he _is_ there, a lot.

So he just wishes that Cas would let it lie. He's not one of the fallen angels – he was robbed of his grace, he is something else, he is human, and he… he just should friggin let it be, cut himself off from that hell.

It's selfish of Dean, he knows he largely thinks all this just because he wants to keep Cas to himself, and he feels sick sometimes, really, to be so egoistic as to prevent Castiel from involving himself with something he has a connection to – other angels, his screwed up family. Free Will, right? And yet Dean wants to limit Castiel's Free Will in just that one aspect. He wants him _here_, he wants him to stay.

"Dean…" Sam's voice is tentative, and Dean clenches his teeth. He's not gonna be leaning on Sammy, the kid's been through enough. "I don't think they're gonna find us. It's not like they have angel radio anymore, and even if they did – Cas is human, right? So – it's gonna be OK."

"Geez, Sammy, don't give me a pep talk, where's that coming from?"

"You're burning the meat," Sam gestures pointedly, a small smug look passing through his face. That bitch.

Dean hurries to flip the pieces over with wooden tongs, glad for the small emergency to occupy his mind. Even if just for a moment.

"Did you put it on the map?"

"Yeah…"

Unbeknownst to Cas, Dean and Sam keep a large paper map of the States, and keep track of angels showing up, being killed or killing someone whenever they hear about it from other hunters or catch something in the news that clearly points to an angel. Each place, they mark with a dot on the map. And recently, some dots seem to be popping up closer and closer to their Batcave.

"You don't think they're… _looking for him_, do you?" Sam asks, curling in on himself a little, as always when he's intensely uncomfortable.

Dean breathes out a dry, mirthless laugh.

"Sammy, _of course_ they're looking for him! He pulled the plug and made them fall! Well, most of the plug. So sure they're looking for him, for whatever reason, and they're not getting him."

"Did you ask _him_?" Sam presses, and Dean freezes.

"Don't go there, Sammy. No, they're not screwing with his head again, not anymore!"

"So, he's a baby, he can't make a good decision on his own?"

"Right now? I don't bloody think so. Shit. Odds are, they're gonna want his hide as a hearthrug, Sammy. Hell, _I_ would if I were them. So – no way," he breathes, running a hand over his eyes. He feels tired suddenly, so tired. "Just… Call Kevin. Let him know, just in case."

Sam nods, accepting and stepping down from the ring, but that's just a round. They're gonna have a few more on this subject, and Dean's not happy, but for now it's peace again. It's Sam's tactic though – give Dean a few wins, consecutively weaker and weaker, and then turn the tables. They've done this crappy dance way too many times for Dean not to register the earliest symptoms.

As to Kevin, the kid went a bit weird. After a few days in the Batcave, he got adamant that he doesn't want to stay in it, that he wants to be on his own, and he threw tantrums so long that Dean and Sam finally caved in. He's now staying at what's left of Bobby's house, in the quickly fixed Panic Room, and Dean and Sam check on him regularly, at least once a week. Sam says to give the guy some space, and yeah, Dean's willing to do that, because he gets it – he definitely does. Kevin's pretty much got nothing to go back to, and he's stuck with two temporarily useless Tablets. He's damn stupid to want to be on his own _now_, in this shithole of a situation, but hell, it's a human thing.

Gruffly, Dean scrapes the meat off onto a large plate, and puts the pan away, throwing the wooden tongs on it without washing. Cas would whine about that, and this thought makes Dean feel slightly better for some weird reason.

Because he likes it, this half-assed domesticity thing they've got going on, the three of them. A home, supply runs, cooking dinner, TV evenings, reading books, arguing about dishwashing, having laundry malfunctions, beer and snacks, Cas sleeping in Dean's bed more and more often… He likes it all, he feels settled, and he doesn't really want to move. They've temporarily retired from hunting, taking a health leave or something – he wants Sammy to get better and Castiel to adjust fully to being human. After that, they'll decide what to do next. Maybe they'll go back to hunting, living here together. He'd like that.

For one, Dean knows he doesn't really want to leave the Batcave, he feels good here. Unless they'd be getting a house, but that's way too apple-pie-life for him to consider for now, so he pushes it away, but carefully tucks it in the back of his mind, just… for later. He's pretty much made a home for himself here, and he likes the way he, Cas and Sam fit in here.

He pulls the defrosted and roasted fries out of the oven and puts them on another plate, hesitates, and with a sigh of sacrifice chops up a tomato for Sam. The health freak is gonna bitch for his vitamins until he gets them.

He takes one plate to the living room, hollering at Sam to make himself useful and get the rest. Cas is already hobbling towards the table, and Dean lets it slide, but just because it's gotta be uncomfortable to eat on the sofa.

Sam brings the rest of the food and a plate for each of them, and they dig in.

Castiel likes eating. He likes food, apparently it's different to explore it from a human perspective or something, and he enjoys meals and snacks. He doesn't eat all the time though, he actually gets full fairly easily, and sometimes ends up pushing the remnants of his food around his plate, but he enjoys food as such. Trips to buy groceries are like a new holy mission for him, he scours the victuals, scanning them for imperfections, and loves learning new tastes and their combinations.

It had taken him some burned tongues and throats to get the idea of scalding hot – coffee, soup, freshly fried stuff and so on. He learned his lesson quickly though, and Dean just loves the absolutely serious way in which he will blow on a spoon of soup for almost a minute.

Now he's done with his meat and is munching up his fries. He's methodical, like in a lot of stuff that he does, but Dean's pleased to see some lightness finally peeking through. Things seem to come more naturally to him now than they did at the beginning of his humanity, and he seems to be settling, drafting out his new comfort zones, finding out his weak and strong spots. And he seems pleased with it. And now he catches Dean's gaze, and holds it, a small smile on his lips.

"_That's_ what I meant," Sam's voice cuts in, almost causing Dean to jerk.

"What?" he frowns, puzzled.

"When you asked what the hell I meant when I said you two were always 'eye-fucking'," Sam elaborates, waving a forked piece of meat in an indicative gesture between the two of them. "That's what I meant."

Castiel frowns, tilting his head to side in his trademark signal for confusion, but Dean feels his own face burn very, very red. He waits till the smug little bitch he has for a brother chews up his meat and takes a sip from his glass of water – and kicks him under the table.

Sam jerks, choking on the water, and coughs, flailing his arms. And well – if Dean slaps him on the back a bit stronger than necessary, no one is going to mention it.

* * *

Sleep is something Cas hadn't been able to master for a long while. First of all, he forgot to sleep regularly, which caused him to occasionally doze off midway some peaceful activity like reading, watching TV, and once also eating. With Dean and Sam as his models of human existence, he thought four hours would be sufficient, but it quickly turned out he needs eight, or at least six. He can go with five or six now, and it's been a month since Dean has had to remind him to 'close the damn book and go to sleep, Cas'.

The first time Cas slept was tough – he couldn't drift off, instinctively jerking awake whenever he would, not wanting to let his mind slip away like that, and Dean remembers thinking that it has to be a scary idea for someone who's never really slept in their life. This vulnerability, this lack of control over one's own mind. Especially the latter is a sensitive subject to Cas. That first night Dean sat on the edge of Cas' bed, waiting, patient in the darkness, until Castiel's breathing evened out and he finally let go. Dean's little secret is that he didn't return to his bed after that – gingerly, trying not to wake him up, he laid down beside Cas, and fell asleep to his soothing warmth and even breath. He only snuck out to his own room in the morning.

It sort of became a thing for Cas to get into Dean's bed in the middle of the night, after a few times when Dean took him there after a nightmare or insomnia bouts, and now Cas sleeps in Dean's bed almost every night – sometimes because they have sex, and because they prefer to sleep together, simply going to bed together after a shared shower (a highlight of Dean's evening).

Dean thinks about it all now as he wakes up on his side, arms wrapped around Cas. The dude's got his face snuggled into Dean's neck, one arm thrown over his waist, and he's snoring a little, a small fact that never ceases to make Dean grin.

He runs a hand down Cas' back, seeking the hem of his rumpled T-shirt, and sneaking underneath to lazily stroke patterns over his lower back. His skin is smooth and warm with sleep, and he sighs into Dean's neck, shifting a little and relaxing contently. His black hair is tickling Dean's chin, and Dean can smell that fresh, slightly tangy scent that always lingers on his skin, and which corresponds very well with his taste.

Dean drops a quick kiss on Cas' head, and gently rolls him onto his back, Cas emitting a small, quiet sound between a purr and a hum. He's a definite sleepyhead and about as far from being a morning person as anyone can get. Getting him out of bed on an early morning is freaking impossible.

"Cas…" he hums pleasantly, rubbing a hand up his ex-angel's torso, running over his stomach and massaging his chest softly. "Cas, wake up."

"Nnnmmgh…"

"C'mon, buddy, it's late," Dean shifts, getting even closer to Cas, tangling their legs together as he positions over him, leaning in for a kiss.

"Mh!" Cas groans, eyes fluttering open and dazed for a moment, the tranquil peacefulness of his face suddenly broken as his features contort slightly in pain, and Dean realises he's prodded Castiel's injured foot with his own.

"Shit," he whispers, clenching his teeth as guilt instantly stabs through him. "Shit, Cas, I'm sorry," he desperately runs a hand through Cas' black hair, seeking out his gaze.

"It's alright, Dean…" Castiel's voice slurs a little with sleep, and he blinks for a moment.

Finally, his eyes settle on Dean's, the intense, all-encompassing, celestial focus returning, and Dean lets this sensation wash over him, because it still feels like Cas can see into his soul.

There's absolute clarity in Castiel's eyes, a lucid brightness that fills the blue with some inner light, and right now, in the late morning, with some sun falling softly in misty glow over Castiel's pale skin, Dean thinks that inner light is a hundred times purer and better than the sharp, blinding grace that sometimes would peer from his pupils. This light, this lit up blue, is something that was there when Cas was an angel, and which still is here now that he's human.

Which means, it's something wholly and solely _Cas_.

And he's just lying here, in bed, half-tangled in white, rumpled sheets, with his black hair mussed and this impossible gaze not leaving Dean's, and his plush, full lips are pinkish with sleep, and that's gotta be the most damn kissable sight Dean's ever seen. So he leans in for that kiss again, meeting Castiel's supple lips with his own, and they relax together into a slow, languid kiss.

It's moments like these that make Dean feel satisfied. Like… like he has his reward. And maybe it's true, maybe this is exactly what it is, and maybe reward doesn't come from some higher power, because there _isn't_ one. Reward is something you need to see for yourself and then work to reach it.

He reached for Cas, and he was lucky, because Cas would have him, after all this time and after everything that's happened, after all the devastations they've both caused.

And it's moments like these – like now, when Cas' mouth is warm and sweet and his hands run over Dean's bare back and sides in slow, leisurely caress – that Dean feels extraordinarily blessed. Not by fate, not by a higher power… just – by everything that's happened to lead to this moment.

Cas pulls away, his hand curling over the back of Dean's neck as he gently holds him in place, and trails small kisses along Dean's throat, and Dean feels his blood quicken and heat up under those lips. Castiel's breath is warm and soft, brushing over his increasingly sensitive skin, and Dean moans quietly, resting his forehead on Cas' shoulder, feeling the hand on his nape slip higher, into his hair, spreading a tingling sensation.

"Trying to keep me in bed, you sneaky son of a bitch?" he murmurs playfully into the cotton of Cas' tee.

"Hmm," a contented hum sounds close to his ear, so close his skin picks up vibrations of Cas' gravelly voice.

Dean chuckles and presses a kiss to Cas' clothed chest, before lifting himself up on his arms bracketing Cas' head on both sides.

"Well, I'm hungry, what say we go back to bed after breakfast?" he asks.

Castiel is silent for a moment, tilting his head to side as he looks up contemplatively, and manages to look pensive despite the blatant relaxation feeling of the moment.

"I think that's agreeable," he finally says, and Dean grins, swooping down for another brief but definitely thorough kiss, before rolling off of Cas to get out of bed.

He stretches, and he just might be showing off his back and boxers-clad ass to Castiel fumbling reluctantly in the bed behind him. He turns, peering over his shoulder to see him half-distracted as he carefully but without hesitation gets up from bed, standing up mostly on one leg, the other slightly flexed so that only his toes brush the floor.

"Help?" Dean asks shortly, just to make sure, but Castiel frowns, maybe not entirely reproachfully, but definitely dismissively.

"I'm fine," he replies in his rough voice. Then, the big blue eyes glance up at Dean again. "But I appreciate your concern."

"'s OK. So, come on then," Dean nods towards the door, and heads out, but slowly, matching Cas' pace.

Cas has managed to find a way to walk with a limp (and Dean has a sneaky suspicion that this feat comes from a lot more walking attempts than they've caught Cas doing), which allows him to keep a pretty normal slow walking pace. He's strictly forbidden from climbing stairs for at least four more days though, according to Sam's retelling of the doctor's orders – that type of activity puts a strain on the tendon Castiel has damaged, and could cause the injury to go further. So Dean scotch-taped a paper sheet to the railing at the base of the stairs, reading 'stop' spelled in Enochian letters, under which, in English, he scrawled 'Don't even think about it'. Cas didn't find it humorous.

In the kitchen Dean delves into the fridge, pulls out an armful of ingredients, and drops them on the countertop, along with some bread, and begins making himself a sandwich. Beside him, Cas takes out a yoghurt, a box of muesli, and drops a few handfuls of health mix flakes into the plastic cup, thoroughly stirring the whole thing with a spoon, and eats, ass half-perched on the counter, thoughtful look on his face.

Sam's roped Cas into all the yoga breakfast shit, and Dean seriously cannot believe how anyone can survive a morning with just this small amount of food, but Castiel claims he's never particularly hungry the first three or so hours after waking.

Having put his sandwich together, Dean looks at him, taking in the view from head to toe. He's semi-relaxed (as relaxed as Cas can get) against the counter, holding his yoghurt and staring somewhere unblinkingly, deep in thought, but he doesn't seem pained. The T-shirt he's wearing, is Dean's favourite in Cas' so far small collection of tees – it's in soft, neutral, slightly dark green, with an image of a big, round, furry bee sleeping soundly on a flower, emitting a contented 'Buzzzzzzzzzz…" in progressively shrinking letters.

It was love at first sight when Cas spotted it at Wal-Mart, and it was the very first thing he ever asked to be bought for him, bringing it shyly, timidly to Dean who was helming the shopping cart on that supply trip. Dean grins whenever he sees this tee, because it's goofy and Cas wears it with seriousness and a small amount of warm affection. He usually wears it for bed, and this time he's completing it with a pair of black boxers, standing barefoot on the kitchen floor, slightly flexing one leg again not to put weight on his injury. Kinda like a horse in standby mode. (And _damn_, he's got nice legs!)

Dean brushes against his side as he reaches for a beer and pops the cap off the bottle, Castiel's eyes flying to it as Dean lifts it to his lips, taking a morning swig. Cas likes beer, an achievement Dean assigns to himself with pride, having gotten him into it when he was still an angel.

Now Cas tilts his head a bit to the side, stops chewing on a spoonful of his yoghurt muesli, and peers at Dean, and shit, the amount of innocent pleading in his eyes is unbelievable – he looks like some puppy!

Dean rolls his eyes upwards, muttering under his breath as he of course feels himself giving in.

"Don't tell Sammy," he grumbles, passing the bottle to Cas who takes a swig as well, and hands it back with a small, barely-there smile of gratitude. Sam's adamant Cas doesn't drink any alcohol as long as he's on meds, even if they're just the usual supermarket stuff, and Dean's hit much stronger drinks on much stronger pills and was always fine.

Still, a health-hazard bitching Sammy is an unbearable Sammy.

Just as Dean thinks it, Sam enters the kitchen, also still in his pyjamas, yawning mouth pointed at the fridge into which he promptly dives, having murmured a sleepy hello.

"How you doing, Cas?" he asks, pulling out his own yoghurt, and when Cas passes him the box of muesli, Dean suspects they're forming some freaking food club.

"My recovery is progressing well," Castiel informs, and spends a moment on meticulously scraping the remnants of his breakfast from the bottom of the plastic cup with the spoon. "I've finished the book last night," he turns to Dean. "The co-dependent relationship of the brothers Bo and Prosper is very interesting, and I have found the character of Scipio to be very engrossing and quite relatable. You should read it, Dean," Cas finishes, a hopeful light of expectation on his face as he stares at Dean.

"I guess I will. Sounds good," well, Cas read Dean's Vonnegut favourites with starving eagerness, so Dean supposes he can return the favour. This would be a good and considerate-relationship-partner thing to do, right?

"It is, I find it…" Cas frowns pensively for a moment, looking for a word, and Dean feels the corners of his lips twitch, because it's a very Cas thing. "Very insightful. Into the minds and emotions of people in certain situations."

"So, four out of five stars in Castiel's Guide to Literature?" Dean smirks, biting into his sandwich.

"I… have no such guide, Dean," Cas frowns, tipping his head to side.

Dean just stares at him, feeling something large and bright swelling in his chest. He knows it's hope, and for once he lets it stay for a moment, doesn't push it away as quickly as he can in hopes of getting rid of it himself before something else crushes it for him, way more painfully.

Maybe… maybe it can be. Maybe he can have this, maybe he can have Cas and Sam, maybe they won't leave when they realise that while they are a reward for him, he's not much of a one for them. They both deserve better, so much more than Dean can give them, but he selfishly hopes that maybe they will stay with him anyway, that maybe, if he tries hard and does good by them, he can make them think he's worth sticking around.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed :)**

**Reviews make my day!**

**(P.S. _The Thief Lord _by Cornelia Funke is really a great book, the kind of kids' literature you can read no matter how old you are.)**


	3. Please don't run

**There you go, next installment :) It's mostly feels and fluff, but also some plot. More feels to come also.**

**Thanks again so very much to everyone who's reviewed and faved/followed - you guys rock :D**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**3. Please don't run**

Castiel's two weeks of staying off his feet are coming to an end, and he's claiming he's feeling completely well now, his injury not hurting him anymore unless he strains the tendon particularly. According to the doctor's orders (the ones that Dean had missed, because he was having a dry-heaving panic attack in the bathroom), he's allowed to walk if he doesn't feel pain, but he's also supposed not to be overworking it just yet.

Trouble is, keeping Cas on the sofa for some compulsory rest now and then, has gotten pretty much impossible. He wants to get out, and Dean understands it, because sitting cooped up for two weeks in a limited space (no matter how big the Batcave is) would drive him over the bend too. Hell, probably even faster than Cas who has one impressive patience.

When Dean and Sam had to leave for about half an hour, Dean sat Cas down on the sofa and told him to watch TV and stay off his feet. When they came back, he found Cas very obediently in the exact spot where he'd left him, staring all too innocently into the screen showcasing some QVC crap. Narrowing his eyes, Dean walked over to the TV and put his hand on it – cold, barely just turned on, and there wasn't any book or other thing on the sofa that Cas could have been spending time with instead of TV. He let it slide, deciding to hope Cas at least didn't venture outside.

Dean's greatest relief about Castiel's recovery probably is that already nine days after the visit to the doctor's, Cas stopped taking the pain pills, assuring the brothers that the pain isn't nearly so bothersome anymore. That evening, Dean went out and stood full twenty minutes by Impala, leaning on his baby's hood, breathing in the night air and the faint, soothingly familiar scent of engine oil, washed over with overwhelming, intense relief so strongly that he needed to breathe deeply for a long, long while to make sure he wasn't going to cry.

No meds, no drugs, no debauched talk, no bitterly humorous resignation, no I-don't-give-a-shit attitude, no hippie clothes.

Okay, Cas may still be figuring out the whole (apparently socially complex) idea of dressing and clothes, not really grasping the concept of personal style and the necessity of socks matching each other, but he never really looks dishevelled in that dirty, worn down way that he did in the directed-and-produced-by-douchebag-Zachariah version of 2014. No, he sticks to simple flannel tees, often borrowing something from Dean (which always fills Dean's day with plenty of distractions, because damn, he's discovered that seeing Cas in his clothes has apparently been some buried fantasy of his) and jeans. He sometimes wears white shirts and black slacks, too, and when he goes out, he usually puts on his trench coat.

For some reason, it always fills Dean with relief.

From the moment Castiel showed up that night, the last of the angels crashing in the distance, and revealed he was now human, Dean's been waiting for an identity crisis implosion.

There's been a lot of hell – Cas severely flinching away from any sort of touch for the first five days (apparently, as he later explained, his senses felt scraped raw, everything felt too close and unnaturally acute, but it moderately quickly settled down – partly because the transition into human nature was quick, and mostly because Cas got used to it), his erratic, almost insane sleep schedule (which was more of a conscious-unconscious schedule), intense bouts of cabin fever that, for the first few days came from the fact that he no longer could fly, shell-shock into prolonging silence exempting necessary communication, and such a look in his eyes whenever the angels situation was mentioned, that Dean and Sam very seriously alternated on suicide watch.

But all of that happened within the very first days since Castiel's abrupt change into a human, and since then he's steadily getting better. Over the last month, he really has been looking okay with what has happened to him, settling into his human life and approaching the transition as a project.

That's good. That's very, extremely, fucking good.

Which is why Dean, every now and then, fears that something will set off a full-blown crisis that hasn't happened to Castiel yet. Yeah, it probably says something really fucked-up about Dean that he sees Castiel's wellness as a reason to worry, but looking at the track record of his own life, things don't tend to stay well for long.

He wants to make sure nothing ever happens to trigger any crisis in Cas. He wants him to just keep getting better, till he's content with what he can make of his situation, and Dean wants to help him. He just… he's not really sure how. So he does what he always does, he takes care, he bitches, he tries.

And he really shouldn't be thinking about all this before bed, because it's a recipe for Instant Nightmare, and he doesn't need another one in his repertoire. So he finishes brushing his teeth, rinses and heads to his room, mumbling a goodnight to Sammy on the way.

Cas is already tucked in, reading in bed to a soothingly warm, dim light of the lamp on the nightstand, and Dean stops his barefoot march in the doorframe, looking for a moment. It's such a plain, simple, _domestic_ picture, something perfectly ordinary, but for Dean it was unthinkable for so long, so far out of reach that he didn't even allow himself to hope.

So he just stands, floored, completely unable to move, and drinks in the sight of Cas in bed, sheets and covers tangled and pushed down to his hips as he sits, resting back against the pillows headboard, blue eyes moving over the lines on the book's pages, hair ruffled as always, the warm light casting smooth, soft glows and shadows over the features of his face. The cheekbones, the nose, the deliciously defined jaw line, the full lips, the neck.

And Dean wants to see this every day. He wants it so much that his heart aches.

"Dean?" Castiel looks at him, puzzled and concerned. "Are you unwell?"

"What? Me? Dude, no," Dean snaps out of his squashy thoughts, and heads to the bed, sliding in beside Cas under the covers. Damn, Cas can always read his face. Crap.

Castiel carefully slides a bookmark (with a beehive design) between the pages and closes the book, putting it away on the nightstand, and going by the precision and slowness of his movements, Dean knows he wants to talk about what he undoubtedly sees on his face all day.

But Dean's a stinky coward, so before Cas can turn around, he reaches over him, switching off the nightlight, and presses a kiss to his neck.

"Night, Cas," he mumbles, dropping onto the pillow. He feels like a dick, but he also really, really doesn't want to talk now. Not about this, not about the fears and the hopes – he just doesn't, not ever. He can't.

He softly wraps an arm around Cas' waist, but Cas doesn't move, lying on his back, and Dean knows he screwed up. He closes his eyes and tries not to choke on the cold, hard silence.

After a few moments, Castiel moves, slowly rolling onto his side, facing Dean, scooting minutely closer. A hand touches Dean's cheek, gently trailing down, until it rests on his shoulder, and there's something softly imploring in the warm touch, and with astonishment Dean realises Cas isn't angry. He's upset, which, fuck, is actually worse.

"Dean…" Castiel's gravelly voice is amazingly soft in the darkness, and it instantly dissolves the coldness of the silence. "Dean, I…" he lingers for a moment, and then releases a frustrated exhale, and when Dean finally opens his eyes, in the darkness he can see a familiar frown on his face – pensiveness and self-dissatisfaction with words. Castiel looks up into Dean's eyes when he seems to have found a way around whatever obstacle he's bumped into. "Dean, I won't break," he says it more in a manner of confession than reassurance, and Dean's listening, every single nerve in his body dedicated to Castiel.

There's a moment of pause, and Castiel's blue eyes are eerily clear in the night, gazing openly, directly, purely into Dean's.

"I may have not been… thrilled with becoming human," Castiel speaks again, and Dean hears him carefully choosing each word, giving it the right meaning. "I may have never made such a choice if I was offered it. But I am not despairing, Dean. Not because of myself."

His words are soft in the nightly darkness, falling from his lips like brushes of velvet, so peaceful and yet thrumming with emotion, that Dean wants to close his eyes again and feel them sink into his mind, but he's unable to look away from Castiel's gaze, the liquid, shifting feelings in the irises completing the meaning of the words he speaks.

"Now that this choice has been, in a way, made for me, brought about through many of my own actions, and now that I have learned more of being human, I am… content, I believe," his hand gently travels up again, and his thumb brushes over Dean's cheekbone. "I'm grateful to you and Sam for taking me in and caring for me, even after everything I have done, and I wish I had something of equal value to offer in return. And I'm fine being a human, Dean. I'm not…I'm not…" he trails off again, frowning, but this time he doesn't look away, he's biting on his lower lip, and he seems to be searching Dean's eyes for the word that escapes him. "I won't _crumble_," he finally chooses. "I won't break. You don't have to feel so very responsible," his hand finds Dean's, and squeezes reassuringly, pleadingly.

Dean returns the gesture imploringly, almost desperately.

"Cas…" his voice comes out as a slightly broken whisper. "Cas, man, you… you don't owe us anything. We're family," he means it, a hundred percent, but it's not the thing he wants to say right now, not the most important thing.

How can he say it? How can he put a thought into words, how is it even possible? He's never been good at it, the message always ends up tangled and comes out wrong in the journey between his brain and his mouth.

"And…" he tries again, because for Cas, he will always try. "And I just want you to be okay, Cas," he whispers, and it's not all that he wants to say, it's just a fraction, but it's a start. "You're… I'm grateful, you know? I'm so bloody grateful that you'll have me, that you're sticking with me, but Cas, I gotta be honest with ya, I think I'm sort of the only one between us making out on that deal, you know? Feel like you're gonna lose here."

He swallows, his throat tight and blocked with something hard that seems to have lodged itself in it.

Castiel's eyes are wide, shining in the darkness, and he's lying perfectly still, hushed.

And then, he moves forward, his hand gripping Dean's shoulder, eyes filling to the brim with determination, hurt, passion and something else, something so, so breathtaking and clear and open that Dean has to call it love, but he's scared to hope he's correct in naming it.

"Why do you say that, Dean?" Castiel's voice laces with a whisper, eyes aflame. "Why do you never see your value? Why is that? Why do you give, but refuse to see it? Why do you run?"

Dean swallows, a salty taste seeping in his throat as his breathing threatens to hitch.

"Don't run, Dean… please… not unless… unless…" not unless you want _me_ to run from _you._ Not unless you don't want me anymore. It's all there, bright in Castiel's suddenly raw, vulnerable eyes, and Dean could stab himself right now.

"Cas… Cas, I'll never… I promise…" he just whispers wetly, desperately, searching for words to make Cas see what he means, but it looks like Cas finds it in his eyes.

Because he leans in and kisses Dean with what feels like overwhelming relief, and it floods Dean too as Cas deepens the kiss, his tongue seeking permission which Dean instantly grants. Cas explores his mouth slowly and relentlessly, and Dean feels something fall away from him, something constricting and heavy, and something warm and full seeps in its place.

Castiel shifts, moving atop Dean as he deepens the kiss further still, and Dean moans, a flame beginning to flicker in his blood as Cas' tongue twines with his, before he begins pulling away. Cas' lips are wet, shining in the darkness for a moment before he dips his head again and trails hot, needy kisses down Dean's throat, then along his jaw line, while his stomach settles against Dean's in a pleasurable weight.

"Cas…" Dean whispers again, and this time his breath is dry with growing heat as he slips his hands under his angel's – yes, his angel's – tee, running his palms over the feverishly warm, smooth skin, relishing in the light shiver that follows his touch.

Cas breathes a quiet moan into the hollow at the base of Dean's throat, before running his tongue over it, and Dean tilts his head back, gasping, and slides his hands down Cas' back to get a hold of his T-shirt's hem. Cas lifts himself off him slightly, and Dean pushes it up, and finally manages to pull it off, and his stomach is flooded with stinging fire, as always when he sees the gorgeous expanse of Castiel's lithe body. He's gorgeous, subtle lines of muscles under pale skin, and Dean runs his hands up his sides and over his chest, drinking up the shaky breath and blazing blue eyes that slowly lose focus.

And then Cas is pressed up against him again, the skin contact searing through Dean, and those lush, full lips are tracing Dean's throat upwards, leaving kisses and small licks, brushing over his cheek, before Cas finds his earlobe and sucks on it softly. Dean moans, a sharp tug of pleasure shooting through him and pooling right in his stomach and groin, and he runs a hand through Cas' hair, fisting the strands greedily. Cas lets out a burning sigh, the hot breath washing over Dean's sensitive skin, and slips a hand down Cas' side, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, slowly tugging them down.

The sheets whisper softly in the darkness, hot breaths mingling between kisses, and Dean hums a moan, tracing his thumb over one of Cas' sinfully gorgeous hipbones. He pushes the boxers down, Cas kicking them off, and he gently pushes up and twists, rolling them over, landing atop his angel. Castiel's fingers card through his hair as he swoops down to trail kisses down this devastating neck, and onto the lean chest. He can smell that scent, unique and ethereal, like the moment between lightning and thunder, slightly ozone-y, and with a tart hint teasing his palate. He leans in and runs his tongue up between Cas' pectoral muscles, collecting the tangy taste of his heated skin, and the keening moan Cas makes just sets him absolutely on fire.

Castiel's hands go to his hips, pulling him close and causing them both to groan at the pressure, while he simultaneously tries to tug Dean's boxers down, and with teamwork they manage that. Castiel's eyes are now just a thin ring of blue surrounding the wide blackness of his pupils, lust and need glazing his gaze, and Dean knows he looks the same.

So he kisses Cas again, feeling his arms wrap tight around his waist.

* * *

The next morning, Dean is predictably chipper – hey, he got awesomely laid – as he moves quickly around the kitchen, putting together an express breakfast, which he earlier was adamant he'll deliver Cas to bed. What the hell, he's allowed to do corny shit like that, right? He's in such a good mood that the cheesiness doesn't bother him, nor does the bitch-faced Sam hunching over his coffee and muttering sourly something about 'soundproofing your guys bedroom'. Bonus points when Dean shoots him a shark grin.

He takes a tray with orange juice, his sandwich and a yoghurt and the muesli box for Cas, and heads out of the kitchen, followed by Sam's warning to 'keep it in your pants, because we have a big supply run and have to head out soon'. He'd flip him off, but he's got both hands busy.

In bed, Castiel greets him with a slightly reproaching, but mostly indulgent smile, and Dean grins, swooping in for a kiss.

They eat, without hurry, tangled in the sheets, just enjoying a morning together, swapping occasional brief words, and Dean thinks that despite everything, his screwed-up world is getting better. Because of Cas.

Castiel is eager for the supply run, because he's been locked up for almost two weeks in the Batcave, and his foot is completely well now, he claims. Still, Dean makes him put on the ointment one more time before he dresses, just in case. They're gonna be doing a lot of walking today, so he'd rather not have Cas limping. Cas obeys, and he does it sitting on the bed, completely stark naked, and Dean stares, seriously thinking about giving Sam's earlier instructions the finger. But then Cas gets up, collects a set of clean clothes, and starts dressing, a small, aloof, smug hint of a smirk playing around the corners of his lips.

Huh. Who'd have thought he's got a bit of a tease streak in him. Dean's most decidedly _not_ complaining.

"OK., so we go pick up some clothes first, because that can keep in the trunk, and after that we do the groceries and stuff," Sam is worrisomely dedicated to perfecting their shopping list as the Impala glides down the road, and Dean shoots him a sideways glance as he goes into a smooth turn. Sometimes he's wondering about this kid.

He glances up into the rear-view mirror to check up on Cas – he's in the backseat, peering out the window, looking pretty relaxed, in Cas-terms. Good. He's an insanely patient son of a bitch, but sometimes he gets bored on long rides, which is when he and Sam usually start playing some nerd games. Dean not always can take that in peace. The other cure for boredom is plugging Sam's iPod into Cas' ears, which successfully tunes him out for even up to three hours.

"If we try, we can be back before five," Sam concludes optimistically, scribbling something on the piece of paper listing their needs in three different handwritings.

Three. It's recent for Cas to add his own positions on the list that's always stuck to the fridge door with a magnet (Sammy's idea, he bought one of those freaking magnetic-back notebooks, like a stack of Post-Its), and Dean's secretly thrilled. It means Cas is really acclimatising, he feels comfortable, he really feels like a part of the family. Or that's what Dean hopes it means.

They arrive at a department store, seek out a place to park ("Dude, there's a spot _right there_! The hell, man?!" "It's under a tree, Sammy, gonna drip sap all over my baby!"), and head across the sunlit lot. Cas squints in the strong August sun, attentively surveying the new destination, and Dean smiles, slowing down so he can catch up when he's done inspecting the territory or whatever.

He's the main reason why they took the trip here, because currently he's wearing roughly half of his wardrobe. He's got on his only pair of jeans (which, along with the black suit slacks, total his stock of trousers), a smooth red tee with a white typography ('Just smile, nod and hope it wasn't a question' – Dean got it for him), and sneakers. He looks awesome, Dean thinks, he should look normal, but he manages not to, there's something _other_ about him, and to Dean he will always look amazing. He has this way about him, something that shows he's more than a human. He may physically be one, but his mind is definitely so much more.

But the point is, in total, he's got five tees, a pair of jeans and one of slacks, a white button-down, a trench coat, a black suit jacket, a blue tie, and two pairs of shoes, including the dress shoes from his suit. He shares clothes with Dean who is always happy to oblige (if only because they're a size too big on Cas, tees showing off his collarbone and jeans hanging deliciously low on his hips), but yeah, he's gotta have more of his own stuff.

Dean and Sam don't exactly have that much more of their own clothes, but since now they have a more permanent dwelling, they figure they might as well get more and not be put on a constant laundry loop.

They find Cas an awesome hoodie. It's dark navy blue, so dark it's almost black, and in dark, old gold lines adorned with a design of sky map – two hemispheres of stars and constellations. The pockets are joined into one in the front, and the fabric isn't thick, but Dean knows it and knows that it keeps a body warm on a cool day. Cas likes it, tracing the stars with interest, and he smiles gratefully at Sam who's found it.

Cas is meticulous about browsing for purchase. He doesn't like certain kinds of fabric (he likes them natural), and he prefers calm colours. He chooses them in deep, full shades, but never garish or too intense (the red tee Dean got him is the sharpest colour among his clothes), and he especially likes hues of blue and green. Dean tries not to be self-centred about this, but sometimes it really looks like Cas has a preference with green that's close to the colour of Dean's eyes.

They get two white button-downs, because Cas wants to keep wearing the suit and trench coat sometimes, and again it makes Dean happy. For some reason, in his mind that fact equals Cas not having an identity crisis and severing himself from what he was. Like it's not too painful for him to wear his Holy Tax Accountant getup. That's good.

Generally, it looks like Cas' process of adjusting to human life now is beginning to mean he's methodically finding a way to reconcile the angelic and human aspects of himself, and make the best of his situation. He is something completely new, between the natures of angel and human, and he manages to see an opportunity in it, for lack of other, better options, and he carefully, with thoughtfulness, tries to choose the best that he has accessible in both spheres of existence, and merges those things, ideals, values, methods together, into one set. And Dean admires the shit out of him, because he himself sure wouldn't be able to do that.

He spends a moment looking through more tees, so Dean leaves him there, but keeps him within line of sight, and gets some underwear for them both (Cas never fully grasped just _why_ exactly humans wear it for occasions other than sleep, under another layer of clothing, and it cracks Dean up just as much as it weirds him out). On the way back he bumps into Sammy browsing through shirts and makes fun of his choices, earning himself a bitchface.

"Y'know, Cas is expanding his style, maybe you should too," he remarks with a smirk.

"Dean, Cas has never worn anything else than a suit and trench coat, and psych ward outfit, he's not expanding his style, he's _getting one_," Sam scowls.

"Yeah, but he's getting it right. You just look like a lumberjack with cowboy aspirations."

"Jerk!"

"Bitch."

Cas tries on some jeans and they get him two pairs. They're just a touch too loose, settling low on his hips, and Dean thinks Cas looks utterly ravishable – bare-chested, since he was also trying on shirts, with his hair mussed from pulling stuff on and off over his head, in dark, navy blue jeans showing a hint of his hipbones. Dean's inches away from biting on his fingers in order to stop himself from jumping Cas' bones in a fucking fitting room in a fucking department store.

Equipped with clothes, they leave the store and dump the load in the Impala's trunk, and head for their groceries shopping. There's a place that's sort of like a roofed market, and it takes a while to get there, but they sell fresh and fine products, so what the hell, every now and then they can go there, right? 's nothing wrong with putting back a couple extra miles to actually eat something nice for a change. Food is high on Dean's list of important things, and for once Sam's not bitching, because the place has a whole paradise section for health freaks, where Sam can wander among his own nerdy kind browsing tofu and broccoli and yoghurts and soya sprouts and shit.

They've been there twice so far, both times with Cas, and though the market is enormous, Cas has the layout perfectly memorised, and he takes a confident lead, shopping list in hand, as Sam and Dean follow with the cart.

Cas makes a beeline for the fruits, which are first, and starts choosing apples, painstakingly analysing each one before picking out roughly ten pieces and putting them in a plastic bag.

"Apples?" Dean recognises the kind – they're soft, mushy, not particularly fun for eating as such, but often used in… "Does that mean pie?"

A small smirk ghosts over Castiel's lips.

"Perhaps."

And if Dean's ever doubted he's anything else but completely in love with Cas since they got together – well, now he's absolutely certain he's 100% gone on him.

They carry on through the fruit section, the three of them alternating with choosing, bagging and having arguments with machines that weigh and print a price label (Dean hates that shit, and on top of everything Sam has a morality fit when he catches Dean trying to get oranges weighed as much cheaper apples).

Cas latches onto some more exotic fruits, picks out some pomegranates and says something about their role and symbolism in the early cultures of the Fertile Crescent that sends Sam into nerdy spasms. Then Cas goes to browse the cantaloupe melons, because he's mentioned something about a dessert he'll make today for tomorrow, and he's used the word 'vodka' when talking about the recipe, so Dean's totally on board and raising the flag.

He leaves Cas sniffing the melons, confident that when he comes back here ten minutes later, he'll still be in the exact same spot, because he's gonna examine each fruit individually before making what he calls 'consumptively aware choice'.

So Dean veers off to the freezers section to get some ice cream, and comes back to predictably find Cas just beginning to finally select the three melons that have fulfilled his personal angelic criteria.

They go through the vegetables where Sam gets a shitload of stuff Dean doesn't even know the name of, pass through the meat and fish where they have a mild debate (read: Dean and Sam argue, Cas mediates), and end with a visit to a small section that has stands with regional sweets from places like Turkey, Arabia, Vietnam and India and such. Cas inspects a few treats presented on the Turkish stands, and lectures the seller on the incorrectness of the recipe, and Dean and Sam extract him when he's halfway through very precisely describing just how the Anatolian or whatever people used to make this. The maltreated seller gapes after them with panicked eyes.

Other than that, they're incident-free, and they make their way to stand in line, Cas perfectly patient, Sam bored and Dean borderline ADHD. They pay and haul the load across the parking lot to the Impala, putting it in the trunk, shoving the newly bought clothes out of the way. Dean is monster hungry by now, so he hurries his two nerds to get into the car as he slides behind the wheel.

"Dude, come _on_!" he yells at Sam who's being a good citizen and taking the cart to a return point. "Un-freaking-believable…" he mutters under his breath, watching his dorky brother through the windshield.

"Your brother is simply giving his input into the idea of order, which he believes in," Cas replies from the backseat, warranting himself an eyeroll.

Sam is just opening the door on the passenger side, when a scruffy derelict stumbles into view. He looks hazy, disoriented and urgent, and he's wearing what looks like a seriously mistreated suit by mistake worn to a day of dragging oneself through swamps, his face streaked with dirt, hair clustered with something that's crusted in them.

What makes Dean notice him (apart from being attuned to noticing stuff in general), is the fact that he suddenly stops dead in his tracks, and he stares _straight at the Impala_, before starting a mad dash for it, and just as Dean is turning the key in the ignition, he downright _slams_ himself into the backseat window on Cas' side.

"Hey!" Dean snaps, instincts instantly kicking in as he reaches for a weapon, Sam almost ahead of him, but the derelict is staring wildly, _desperately_ at Cas.

And Cas gasps, staring back, eyes wide and almost terrified.

"Nathaniel!"

* * *

**I know, very horrid of me to make a cliffhanger. I hope to update soon though!**

**Don't worry - the twist will bring a lot of feels, but there still will be plenty of fluff, because gah, I can't function otherwise after the finale! Also, Crowley should make a more substancial reappearance soon :)**

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)**


	4. Let's go home

**Sorry for the delay after the cliffhanger, heh - school is attacking my time.**

**I'm not very happy with how this chapter came out, which is a shame, because it's important... still, I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless :)**

* * *

**4. Let's go home**

The sight of his brother, so abrupt and so violent, wreaks a shock through Castiel's body.

It's the powerful combination of Nathaniel's very presence, sudden, rapid entrance into Castiel's day, and of his appearance – he's dirty, dishevelled, mangled, face contorted into weakness brought on by desperation, eyes wrought with worry and deeply rooted anxiety. His hair is tangled, clustered with dirt, face streaked with smudges of soil and grime, and his clothes appear to have never been changed nor washed since the fall that had pulled him plummeting down into the ground and the earthly realm of existence.

The fall that takes its origin purely from Castiel's actions, wrongly made decisions and foolish conceptions. Foolish hopes. Foolish, foolish, ideas of his own ability and potency to bring order to what he – _again, he_ – has broken and damaged.

"Castiel!" Nathaniel gasps urgently, his breath steaming briefly on the other side of Impala's window.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean's sharp yell causes Castiel's body to physically jerk, and the next moment Dean leaps out of the car, the angel blade in his hand.

"Dean!" Sam yelps, scrambling out of his own seat in panic, and Castiel also rushes to get out, pushing Nathaniel along as he opens the backdoor.

"Dean, no!" he cries out roughly, commandingly even, as he sees his beloved grip Nathaniel into an expert, painful lock, pressing the blade to his throat, and Nathaniel struggles on a soldier reflex, but in his human form he is no match for Dean's strength.

"Dude, are you out of your mind, we're in public!" Sam hisses in a mixture of panic and fury, and Castiel feels those emotions brush over him unpleasantly vividly. He clenches his teeth, rejecting them in favour of steeled nerves.

"I don't care, what do you want, you dick?" Dean growls roughly into Nathaniel's face.

"Dean, release him," Castiel speaks levelly, and Dean gives a feral snarl that clearly communicates opposite intentions.

"Dude, we're drawing a crowd…!"

"Castiel, I must speak with you," Nathaniel ignores the Winchesters, his eyes boring into Castiel's relentlessly.

Castiel has seldom faced Nathaniel before being taken by Naomi, and just as seldom afterwards. Yet, attuned to all of his siblings' communications, just as they all always were to each other, he sees the unusual nature of the desperation and urgency in Nathaniel's eyes.

"Very well," he answers, weighing his response carefully, and looks to Dean. "Let's drive to a neutral territory. I propose the forest."

"Are you serious?!" Dean hisses. "No way, we drive off and I'm not killing him just 'cause we got witnesses now!"

"Dean," Castiel frowns, imploring, seeking to reason. "Please."

An unreadable emotion flashes quickly through Dean's eyes, his beloved opening his mouth again, then snapping it shut with abruptness and set of jaw that always bespeaks his inner anger, conflict and frustration. Castiel sees all of it as Dean releases Nathaniel, and he feels those emotions settle in a heavy pressure over his chest. He dislikes the sensation.

But there is no time to deliberate on that now, and all three of them know it, each ignoring his own sensations – Sam gets back into the car, Castiel opens the backdoor, gesturing for Nathaniel to get inside, and Dean demonstratively hands Castiel his angel blade.

"Here. I don't trust this son of a bitch," Dean mutters, his voice cracking over one of the words, and he swallows hard. And Castiel knows he's displeased, angry and gripped with worry, and he aches self-loathingly, knowing that once more he is the cause of such emotions in Dean.

He takes the blade obediently, and embarks after Nathaniel. Dean slams the driver's door with much more force than he usually displays towards his treasured car.

The ride is silent, and even Castiel registers the heavy tension, but it does not affect him. Despite tuning in with many – if not most – of Dean's emotions, a collectively shared atmosphere tends to have a much lesser, and often minute, bearing on his own sensations. On his part, Nathaniel seems to absorb the silence, and participates in it, gazing at Castiel.

The Impala glides down the road, travelling in between lines of trees framing the highway, carrying them farther and farther away from their dwelling, and after a few turns into sideway, forest roads, Dean stops the car, having driven deep into the woods. He gets out first, and he doesn't turn to face Castiel, a fact that makes him uneasy, but he simply gets out as well, blade in hand, and waits for Nathaniel to follow. On the other side of the car, Sam is also out, uneasy, shifting, agitated. Castiel has heard him trying to stifle a cough two times during the drive, and finally Sam seems unable to keep it back anymore, and he coughs into a fisted hand, frowning.

The air is soaked with the hot, summer scent of pine and resin and dry needles, and Castiel briefly gazes at the conifers surrounding them, before his eyes return to Nathaniel. His brother, though not in human terms of sentiment, is still gazing at him, his apprehension now accompanied by a sense of incomprehensive awe, and Castiel frowns slightly, tilting his head in confusion, not seeing the origins of this addition.

"Alright, you dick, talk," Dean's harsh growl snaps through the silence. "What did you want from him?"

"You are a hard person to find, Castiel," Nathaniel speaks, a hint of respect shining through his voice, and Castiel frowns in focus. "I'm… I'm glad this has not changed."

"Were you searching for me?" Castiel asks, careful. He feels his demeanour and body settle into the tentative, wary pace of strategy, he feels himself slipping into the soldiery stance, and he revisits it with both relief and masked trepidation.

"In a way," Nathaniel sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, the gesture stiff, awkward and unfamiliar. The hand continues, dirty, brushing over his facial hair, and he seems displeased, uncomfortable. Ill adjusted. He gazes at Castiel, eyes taking him in with confusion and wonder. "You're so clean…" he remarks almost in awe, and Castiel represses the urge to inch away.

"Yeah, he showers," Dean cuts in gruffly. "Got anything else, or just the personal hygiene survey from Fallen Angel Central?"

Nathaniel glares at Dean, thus for the first time taking actual, proper notice of any of the Winchesters, and Castiel feels a small twinge of protective wariness pulse through him, an instinct he has developed towards Dean and Sam when either of them are confronted with his siblings.

"I wish to speak with you alone, Castiel," Nathaniel speaks in Enochian, but Castiel stands steadfast, unmoved, while Dean and Sam blink, surprised at the sudden change of language.

"I… have no secrets to keep from the Winchesters," Castiel replies, resolutely staying with English for the brothers' benefit. He peers at Nathaniel with narrowed eyes.

His brother seems taken aback slightly, and he blinks, taking in Castiel's entire form again. His eyes linger on the red shirt, a slight expression of confusion and displeasure passing through them as he reads the phrase ironed onto the fabric ('Just smile, nod and hope it wasn't a question' – Dean seems to enjoy seeing Castiel wear it, so he does every now and then, though the reason for his beloved's amusement escapes him).

Nathaniel seems surprised by and somewhat discontented with Castiel's appearance and the fact that he has… 'gone native', Castiel believes is the phrase Dean would use in this situation.

"Very well…" Nathaniel reverts to English as well, though reluctance rings clear in his tone. "Castiel, we are divided. Those who survived – some have went rogue, but most of us stay together, I think by now we have grouped most of those among the survivors who are inclined to find our way back into Heaven…"

"I know, I've heard," Castiel responds levelly, though inwardly he fights a flinch of pain at the thought of the devastated Heaven.

Once more devastated by him. And once more when he'd intended the exact opposite. Why would he ultimately always choose evil when put before a choice between good and evil? Why would his intended, desired choice of good, made in good faith, always, in the end, reveal itself to be evil? Does it make him evil, to always choose so, when desperately attempting and believing he is doing good?

"Castiel, some of us need your help," Nathaniel's voice pulls him partially out of his worried musings, and he regards his brother carefully. "There is a way to reach Heaven, even for the fallen angels."

Castiel's attention is at the height of its sharpness, and in his peripheral vision he sees the Winchesters stiffen in taut anticipation.

"How, Nathaniel?" he questions, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"The Ladder of Virtues," his brother responds, and Castiel's eyes widen as he takes a slow breath, almost matching it with a step backwards.

"The what?" Sam asks, frowning in puzzlement.

"The Ladder of Virtues," Castiel repeats, seeing that Nathaniel is not willing to interact with the brothers, which nettles him more than it would have some months or years ago. "It's also known as the Ladder of Divine Ascent. It is a concept of accumulating particular virtues, as a result of which one would be able to ascend into Heaven on this ladder."

Beside him, Dean huffs a mirthless, sarcastic snort.

"Yeah, cause the Tower of Babel worked out so well," he sneers.

"It's not a physical item, you ignorant ape," Nathaniel hisses, a jolt of irritation passing through Castiel's system.

"I believe right now, not much differs you from the ignorant apes, Nathaniel," he reminds him in a hard, steady tone. "Nor me, for that matter."

Nathaniel stares back at him, eyes hard, but wrought with numerous ordeals he must have experienced over the last near-three months of his sudden humanity. Castiel takes him in, his broken, destroyed appearance, the clear vision of misfortunes and suffering lingering in his gaze, and he yet again thinks himself extraordinarily and undeservingly blessed. Blessed with the Winchesters, with their care, help and loyalty, with the way they instantly looked past his enormous blames and sins, and simply, completely naturally, took him in under their protection, and helped him adjust.

They are family, they keep telling him for over two years now, and Castiel gratefully, thirstily, leans into this statement, and treasures it, vowing to himself to do anything and everything he can in order to honour it, and repay Dean and Sam as much as possible. Family is the most important, highest concept for the brothers, family in the sense transcending the ideas of blood relations, and defined as the collection of people they value most at heart. It is a rare and overwhelming honour to be bestowed with, the Winchesters' _invitation_ into their family (not even acceptance, so much more than that), and Castiel is touched whenever he thinks of it.

The only gift that humbles him more, is a gift strictly related to it, which is the gift of Dean's love for him. Though he's never said it out loud, Castiel feels – hopes – Dean loves him the way he seems to, the way Castiel loves him.

"Why, Castiel?" Nathaniel's voice yet again cuts into his musings. "Why do you always return to those brothers, why do you stay loyal to them, why would you betray your own family for them, all those countless times?!"

Castiel frowns.

"I doubt you would understand, Nathaniel. For all that they've done for me, for the help and care, my loyalty is the only thing of value I have to offer in return. And they are my family," he finished, steadfast, calm, looking into Nathaniel's eyes.

"Castiel… Castiel, all this… _strangeness_ aside – Metatron needs to be defeated. The Ladder of Virtues gives us way into Heaven, we can take on him!"

"You're forgetting an important thing, Nathaniel, the Ladder of Virtues was intended for humans, and while we are such now, it requires not only the Free Will, but also Grace. No one has Grace anymore, Nathaniel," he reminds him.

"Metatron does!" Nathaniel half-whispers in intensity. "Don't you see, Castiel? He spared himself, he did not fall, he stays in Heaven. He has Grace – and once we have completed the other virtues and ascend the Ladder, he will be the last step, the last rung."

Castiel stays silent for a moment. It is a clever design, to be sure. That Metatron's own victory would be turned against him, is an intelligent prospect, but even that fact does not overshadow an obvious point that Castiel makes to Nathaniel next:

"That may be so, but – none of those who ascend, will become angels again. Nathaniel, it's impossible, no one will return to being an angel," he says evenly, but quietly.

Nathaniel's lips press together for a moment, and he gives a brief, sharp nod.

"That is true. But we will be something else, we won't be humans anymore either. And we will be home, Castiel! Home, where we can make the new order and stay forever," he speaks, a tinge of passion weaving into his voice.

But Castiel doesn't feel it. He can see it lingering before him, but it does not reach him. He wants to help, wishes desperately for a way to atone for his sins, for a way to help fix what he so utterly had shattered, even despite the gnawing, painful sensation that he only stands a chance of crumbling the chance into an ultimate disaster. He wishes to help his siblings restore at least a semblance of what they once held and were, but he doesn't wish to partake in results.

Were they all to become angels once more, he would be willing to return to Heaven. But when faced with a choice between staying here, on earth, as human, and ascending into Heaven as a virtuous soul… he wishes to stay. Because of his love for Dean, because of a different kind of love for Sam, and because this new life here, that he has just begun to build, with his _family_, feels precious.

He had grown fond of it over the past weeks, but only now, when facing a prospect of relinquishing it, he realises he considers this life precious. Valuable. _Good_.

Castiel sees Nathaniel's hopeful, shining eyes, he sees the offer extended to him in expectation of a future. He turns his head slightly, looking at Dean – his beloved is standing perfectly still, uncharacteristically silent, his green eyes wide and unwaveringly settled on Castiel. There's an expression that he struggles to read, but finally sees it is anticipation. Pending. A bated breath.

And he realises that Dean is… unsure. He is completely suspended, unable to predict Castiel's choice, and dreading one option so much that he's afraid to hope for the other. Castiel feels a pressure clench in his chest, wondering why isn't his choice clear to Dean. What had he done wrong, where had he not inserted enough clarity into his intentions? Probably everywhere, he is not very adept in the art of communicating with humans.

He turns to look at Sam, his friend, one whose determination to make the right choice lately feels much clearer to him. Sam is also watching him with tension and fear, his eyes clearly belaying his worry.

"I will… help you, Nathaniel. If you need my help. But I will not ascend with you," Castiel speaks, returning his gaze to the frayed once-angel before him.

"What? Castiel, what are you saying? Are you insane?"

"No, Nathaniel," he snaps in a voice perhaps slightly rougher than intended – he finds the questioning of his sanity to be a sharp sting of intense discomfort. "I am willing to help, in whatever way you need me to, to at least remotely fix a fraction of what I have broken. But I will not return with you to Heaven. Having a choice, I'd much rather stay here."

"Why, Castiel? _Why_?" the efficiently eloquent Nathaniel condenses all of his disbelief into the single question.

"Because I don't want to _survive_, Nathaniel, I want to _live_," he expresses, as closely as possible.

He feels frustrated with the insufficiencies of human languages to relay his thoughts and emotions, but for Dean and Sam's benefit he will not return to Enochian now. And even this, he thinks, his primary tongue, isn't sufficing anymore either, not in this configuration – it doesn't reflect some of his thoughts and emotions, does not so fully and purely filter through the conceptions of Free Will.

"When you know what help you need from me, find one of the hunters and let them know you wish to meet. They will pass on the message," he instructs in a tone clearly implying finality.

Nathaniel stares at him for a moment that, he thinks, humans would normally term long. At last, Nathaniel nods slowly, taking a step back.

"Very well, Castiel. You have virtues… I will contact you when we need them to compose the Ladder. Between us all, we will try to assemble and attain all the thirty virtues needed. Think for now. When we meet again, my offer will still be open. You can come home with us, Castiel. You can belong."

With that, Nathaniel turns and walks away, unhurriedly, at an even pace heading in between the trees towards the road, doubtlessly headed to where the fallen angels have gathered. Castiel watches him until the woods engulf him, erasing him from his line of sight.

Dean swallows, feeling a hard ball filling his throat with a clenching pressure as that fallen angel – that Nathaniel – finally leaves. He's almost afraid to look at Cas, afraid that he'll see regret on his face, a wish to have accepted Nathatniel's offer and maybe even gone with him instantly. But Dean's been trying to promise himself not to be a coward with Cas, not ever again, because Cas doesn't deserve that shit from him, so he clenches his teeth and slowly, with effort, turns to look.

Castiel is gazing after Nathaniel, but the only emotion painted on his face is his pensive frown, and maybe a small hint of something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. Dean swallows again, wanting to say something so much that he can feel a pressure of words welling up in his chest and throat, but an even stronger force is keeping his mouth shut. Because he doesn't know _what_ to say, and if he says anything, it will of course be the wrong thing, and this whole situation is like a house of cards, and it will just topple down in a minute.

This is exactly what he's been trying to avoid, what he's been afraid of, this identity meltdown waiting to happen. And now there it is, the worst shit possible, one of the fallen angels not only making contact with Cas, but also asking him to come with them, and come back to Heaven. And, shit, who is Dean to ask Cas not to? Who the _hell_ is he to even _begin_ wishing he could ask Cas not to?

Castiel turns back to face him, and they stare at each other for a long moment, just a small distance between them, but as Dean's mouth slowly falls slightly open, he feels like it's fucking miles and miles forever. Because both of them want to say something, but neither has a good record with ever saying the right thing at the right time, and now this clear realisation grips Dean's stomach in a cold clutch. Cas' eyes are so, so blue as they gaze into Dean's, imploring, open, raw, longing, and a thousand other things, a small worry line crossing his forehead in an expression that is too familiar, that happens too often. And Dean desperately wishes to say something, but still he stays silent, because he can't find the right thing.

And then a miracle happens. Castiel, searching through Dean's eyes, suddenly, completely simply and naturally, finds the right thing to say. He opens his mouth, and something perfect fills the silence, instantly shrinking the distance between the two of them.

"Dean… can we please go home?"

* * *

Still, Dean has suicidal tendencies, so he has to tell Cas something. He can't leave well enough alone, he has to try and find the right words to say what he wanted back in that forest, and when he finally has a rough draft in his head, he moves to the kitchen, where he knows he'll find his… boyfriend or lover or partner or whatever. His angel.

And there he is indeed, making that melon-and-vodka dessert he's mentioned. He's standing by the countertop, and he's deftly sticking a long knife into one of the melons, at the petiole, and with one, practiced twist of his wrist, he makes an ideal circle, after which he pulls out a cylindrical piece cut out from the melon, thus removing all the seeds.

"Hey, Cas…" Dean stupidly plays with the first thing that's within reach, which happens to be a teaspoon.

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel consults a slightly mangled piece of paper with his handwriting on it, before he proceeds to make small cuts on the edges of the hole in the melon.

"Cas, man, I…" it's harder than he'd imagined, and he wasn't thinking easy to begin with. Dean knows, he knows he should be the bigger man here, he should let Cas go, because sooner or later Cas will regret his decision to stay here – human, stuck with Dean. "Cas, do you… did you wanna go?" Dean closes his eyes and leaps off the ledge. "With Nathaniel, I mean?"

He's falling. He falling, and he just wants to crash and black out already, because every second of this fall is making him sick.

(_Is this how you felt, Cas? Is this what it felt like, to fall with no end to put you out of your misery? And then, instead of it, you woke up human?_)

Castiel turns around to face Dean, his eyes intense and wide, and they peer into Dean's with familiar, almost too strong directness. He doesn't say anything, he just stares, and Dean feels his mouth go dry. His fingers twist and wrap around the spoon, nervous.

"I mean, to where the fallen angels group or whatever, or later, to Heaven? Did you wanna go?"

"Dean…"

And now that Cas finally speaks, Dean feels a lurch of hysteria surge through him, and suddenly he knows he just _can't_ hear whatever it is Castiel has to say, because he's pretty much sure he'll die if he hears a 'yes'. But Castiel doesn't say anything for a long moment, lingering, mouth parted, eyes searching, pleading.

Dean swallows with effort, and decides that for Cas, he can do it. He can step aside and let Cas make an actual choice, make _the right_ choice, because this is what he deserves. For all that he's done and been through, he deserves much more than to one day wake up and realise just how badly Dean screws everything up, always.

"'cause… if you want to, it's okay, man," Dean says, and his voice comes out only a little louder than a hoarse whisper. He wishes his heart wouldn't hammer so sickeningly, dammit! "If Willy wants to be free and swim with other killer whales, it's okay. I mean, it sucks, but it's okay, and I get it," he talks through Cas' customary puzzled frown and head-tilt at yet another reference that's escaped him. "You… you don't owe us anything, Cas, you don't have to stay out of loyalty or something."

"Dean," Castiel speaks again, and this time Dean knows he'll continue. "Dean, I have… no desire whatsoever to join the other fallen angels, nor do I wish to ascend with them into Heaven. And… you're being extremely difficult, and incomprehensive, and self-depreciating, and I almost suspect purposefully uncooperative…" Castiel sighs, lifting his eyes a little as he lists in a frustrated voice, and Dean blinks slowly.

"Well – thanks, Cas."

"I'm not finished. You and Sam will always have my loyalty, but not only because I feel like I have little else to offer. Most of all, you have it because I _want you_ to have it. And I'm staying because…" he hesitates, looking up for a moment, almost like he wants to grasp some inspiration. "Because you are my family. Because this is my home now, a home I have chosen. Because I finally have the absolute Free Will, and Dean, has it not occurred to you that _this_ is my choice? That _you_ are my choice, Dean? It's a choice I will never regret making. And I will _always_ stay with you, Dean. For as long as you'll have me."

And Jesus, Cas just _can't_ be saying shit like this, like it all is so simple, like it almost doesn't really matter. Like it doesn't break Dean's heart with love and despair at the same time, because Cas deserves more, like it doesn't make Dean feel like he might never breathe again. Like it's just such a plain, normal thing. Like it's the way it should be.

"Cas…" he tries, he really fucking tries, but he doesn't know what to say, and there's something really wrong with him, because he never could find the right words to say shit that matters, to anyone. "Cas, I… I _want_ you to stay, damn, I want you to never leave my goddamn side again, and yeah, stay. But Cas, it's… it's not a great deal you're giving yourself here."

"I disagree. I have a home and a family, Dean. In truth, I've never had those things, and it has taken me a fall to realise that. When I woke up human, I was scared, and I watched my siblings fall from Heaven, and I thought it was the end, that I finally had been punished. But now I think I've been rewarded, or rather blessed, because I haven't done anything worth rewarding. Because now I have a home and a family. And I'm grateful for it, to both you and Sam. I don't see why you insist on not noticing how much you give, Dean," there is sadness in Castiel's blue eyes, deep, strong and overwhelming, and Dean stares. "The Heaven has named you the Righteous Man, but for all the wrong reasons. They didn't notice the values that truly made you the Righteous Man, and you showed them to me. You are righteous for all the human reasons, not by the ill-applying concepts of Heaven. I wish I didn't have to work quite so hard to convince you that you are good, Dean," he admonishes with a tinge of sadness that Dean simply can't bear.

"So why do you put up with me?" he asks, half-jokingly, but with something trembling in anticipation inside him. The question is more serious than the façade he's tried to give it.

And Castiel seems to only see the seriousness, because he looks into Dean's eyes, solemn, and takes a step closer, and then speaks simply.

"Because I love you, Dean."

Dean feels his breath abruptly squeezing out of his lungs, as if he was nudged in the chest, and it's almost like a whispered sob, his heart twisting in a strange way that should be painful, but isn't. His brain reels, only shadows of thoughts glimpsing through, and he almost cannot accept what he'd just heard. Cas couldn't have just said that, not so simply, like it's a good thing, because he _shouldn't_, and Dean doesn't deserve it, and…

He stares into Castiel's fathomless eyes, and in them he sees infinity, he sees this cosmic light filling them so often, and now it's clearer and closer than ever, and the sincerity and rightness in this gaze is so strong, so pure, so ethereal and encompassing, that Dean suddenly feels it _is_ right. Castiel loves him.

He surges forward, and wraps his arms around Castiel, holding him close, pressing him into his own body as much as he physically can, and he struggles to speak, because for once, just once in his life he knows what he wants to say, but this time he can't, because his throat is clenched. He fists a handful of the red tee on Castiel's back, pressing his cheek into his neck, and takes a long, jagged breath, before pulling away just slightly, so he can face Castiel.

As he opens his mouth, there's one last block, something inside him trying to stop the words from coming out, because he's never allowed himself to say them, but the rush he feels inside is much stronger, breaking through it.

"I… I love you, Cas," he finally says, and he feels the flood overtake him, breaking away the dam that's been stopping him for so, so long. "Damn it, Cas…" he whispers, almost breathless. "I love you, Cas, I love you, I love you, I love you…" the words flow, and he keeps repeating them over and over again, like he's making up for every single moment he's missed before.

There is bright, shining light in Castiel's eyes, and Dean drinks it, basking in it, running a hand through his black hair, slowly and tenderly. And Castiel breathes a long, peaceful sigh that brushes over Dean's lips.

And Dean is happy.

* * *

**There, a standard kiss-and-make-up, plus a love declaration :D**

**Next chapter will have more Sam, because I neglected the poor guy totally in this one :P**

**Please review, each is a fluffy ball of goodness :D**


	5. Going camping (with Wendigos)

**This chapter worked out longer than I expected, I hope it's a good thing :)**

**The boys are going hunting, and some camping fluff happens on the way. I had lots of fun writing it, I hope you guys enjoy reading it :D Also, as pormised, more Sam.**

**Thank you for all your reviews, I cherish each of those fluffy balls of goodness :D**

* * *

**5. Going camping (with Wendigos)**

"I swear, if you two try anything, I'm gonna kick your asses out to be Wendigo bait!"

"I'd like to see you try, bitch. And yeah, like we're gonna get going with you here, dude, that's sick!"

Sam huffs, scooting aside across the tent floor, and demonstratively dumps his duffel bag in between himself and Dean who sleeps in the middle, and proceeds to fumble with his sleeping bag.

They've eventually gone back to hunting, though taking fewer cases than they used to, Garth assuring them he's got enough hunters to dole the supernatural around. It's late September, and it's their second case with Castiel on the team. Well – with human Castiel on the team.

Cas is faring well, Sam thinks. He's good with weapons, especially knives and swords and such. It had taken him a while to get a hang of the mechanics of handling a gun (strapping, reloading, cleaning and the like), but his aim never was bad. In fact, his aim is pretty much impeccable, even when he shoots in the dark and from afar at a moving target. He may be out of his angel strength, but he's got extremely quick reflexes, which is why even Dean didn't protest that much to Cas coming on this case with them.

The attacks had happened in Wisconsin, deep in a forest and far away from any roads, forcing them to park the Impala at the closest motel (with much fussing and insecurities and borderline separation anxiety stunts from Dean) and head into the woods on foot. They've been trekking for well over five hours, down the less and less conspicuous and passable paths, carrying the tent on shifts, and had finally decided to set up camp for the night. If Sam's calculations are correct and compass trustworthy, they've still got at least four hours' worth of march to be done tomorrow, before they finally reach the presumed Wendigo lair, so Sam pulls out his phone and sets up an early wakeup call (it's gonna be hard to get Cas awake, but Sam decides to make it Dean's problem).

They had found the tent in one of the storage rooms in the Men of Letters base, and it's a somewhat roomy, comfy tent housing four, but Sam's sharing it with his best friend and horny brother who happen to be a couple, so he's got his reservations.

"Sam, move, dammit," Dean grumbles, crawling around on all fours and pushing his own bag out of the way. "You're taking up half the floor, sasquatch!"

"'s not my fault you throw your stuff all around, jerk," Sam bites back with a huff.

Under the opposite wall of the tent, Cas groans when Dean inadvertently puts his elbow into his side while fighting to unfurl his own sleeping bag.

"Sorry, Cas," murmurs Dean, and then, much more purposefully, repeats the procedure with Sam.

"Ow, Dean!"

"Yeah, well, I told you to quit taking up so much space. Where's the third gun?" Dean looks around, having halfway shimmied into his sleeping bag. Sam looks around, but can't locate the third piece either.

"…I think I'm lying on it," Castiel groans with some discomfort, and a moment later produces the missing weapon from under himself. "There. I'm sorry."

"Put it by the entrance, but close enough so you can reach it," Dean lectures unnecessarily, because Castiel knows this on his own, but Dean just is like that, he prefers to be safe than sorry, and he just needs to advise on safety. He's always done that when Sam was a kid, and Sam always huffed and protested, but now it feels familiar and somehow soothing whenever Dean does that to either him or Cas.

"Wakeup at six," Sam informs, lifting his phone, before he places it on top of the bag that's still separating him pointedly from Dean. He receives two groans of displeasure, but no protests.

A few more minutes of squirming, squabbling, occasionally shoving each other (Dean and Sam), they're all finally settled, each in his sleeping bag, ready to sleep and digest the tinned tuna sandwiches they'd had for dinner. Sam's just looking through a few notes on the case, and after a while of intense focus on the data, he turns his head to Dean to ask if they can now turn off the small gas lamp providing them with light and go to sleep, but his words catch in his throat when he witnesses an unusual display of affection, genuine affection.

Dean is propped up on his elbows, close to Cas who is snuggled into his sleeping bag and a few clothing articles he's nested himself in, and Dean is peering down at him, his eyes soft with love, and such tenderness on his face that he almost looks in pain. He lovingly strokes Castiel's head, running his hand through his hair, and smiles – it's a small smile, but such a vulnerably sincere one that Sam feels his heart go light with happiness for his brother's visible love.

"Comfy?" Dean asks in a soft murmur, and Castiel nods in response, looking up at him with wide blue eyes. "Good," Dean leans in and brushes a kiss over Castiel's cheekbone.

Sam quickly stares at his notes, realising that Dean thinks he's oblivious. He knows his brother would have a fit of embarrassment and, subsequently, jerk-ish sulk and huff fest if he got caught in his moment of affection display, and Sam wants to spare him that. Him, and poor Cas who would get caught in the middle of it.

Still, he glances out the corner of his eye, just for a moment. Dean's nuzzling Cas' hair, and Castiel's eyes fall closed in peace. There's something magnetic about a love like this, a love like the one that spans between those two, and Sam is honestly happy for his brother, as well as for his best friend. He likes to steal a glance at that love sometimes, when they're just having a quiet, peaceful moment, because he has so few chances to see his brother happy. Sam knows the feeling of love, such absolute, bright love that makes him transcend who he is and fill every gap in him with contentment, if not happiness. He's had this love with Jess, and still remembers it sometimes. Maybe he could have had it with Amelia, but he doesn't think he'll know now.

And Dean's never had it. And even though Sam's lost his love, he's _had it_, he knows what it feels like, and over time the memory has turned into a small, timid source of comfort and peace when he goes to it. So he's happy to see Dean have his own love, and Sam looks at those two and knows they're set up for good.

It makes him glad.

"Lights out, Sammy, put down your _Goodnight, Moon_ and tuck in," Dean commands from beside him, and Sam throws him a scowl, but he lets some mirth peek through it.

Dean hovers with his hand over the small knob of the lamp, and a twinkle sparks in his eyes as he holds Sam's gaze for a moment. There's a strong current of warmth passing between the two of them, and of course Dean would never acknowledge it out loud, but Sam knows his brother feels it too, so he's content with that. It feels a bit like the good old times, only better, with their self-proclaimed Third Wheel dozing off nearby, and even if they've got a load of troubles and problems to sort out, things are looking good. Sam is getting better, Dean is at peace, Cas is getting there.

Sam is grateful for this, and he smiles at Dean. And just before he turns the knob and drowns the tent in darkness, Dean smiles back.

* * *

Sam has only one coughing fit in the night, which is good. Normally he has two, sometimes three. He wakes up wheezing, and he tries to be quiet, stifling the coughs with a balled up T-shirt he presses to his mouth, glancing towards Dean and Cas to make sure he's not waking them.

Not a chance. Going by the vague haze of pre-dawn outside, it's got to be almost five am, which means Dean needs an artillery shot or the quiet sound of creeping danger to wake up. As to Cas, a lightning might as well strike the tent and he'd sleep right through it at this time of night – the closer to morning, the harder he's to rouse. They're sleeping pressed close together, Dean's hands haphazardly thrown open wide as he sleeps with his mouth open, sprawled on his back, while behind him Cas snores quietly.

Sam coughs a few more times, clenching his teeth and trying to be as quiet as possible. He reaches for a bottle of water nearby, and takes a few sips – works like a charm, the irritating sensation of a fleck lodged in his throat washes away, and he feels some peace overtake him.

He lays back down, breathing out a relieved exhale, and reaches for his phone, unlocking it to check the time, and squints as the sharp light floods his eyes. Yeah, 4:54 am. And no coverage, they're deep in the forest, he thinks as he puts the phone away and closes his eyes, settling back into a comfortable sleeping position. They gotta stick close to each other now…

Lack of coverage has upsides though, he thinks. No phone calls from emotional, redemption-seeking Crowley.

After the events of that fateful night – after Dean made Sam stop the final trial, after the angels rained from the sky – they let Crowley be. Dean had unchained him, because Sam asked him for it in a gleam of lucidity brought on by Castiel's healing ministrations, and they let him be. Sam figures it's fair – Crowley is… mostly human now, rethinking his life, seeking redemption and forgiveness. He's on the run from many demons and from Abbadon who now tries to become the King of Hell herself. It wouldn't really feel right to hunt him down, and Sam would never let Dean do it if Dean had such a plan.

Crowley's fate is in his own hands now, more than ever before, Sam thinks. They're not hunting him, but they're not inclined to help him either, and Sam reckons it's fair. Staying neutral is, in his estimation, the most just decision, but apparently Crowley doesn't think so, especially when an emotional bout hits him, which is when he usually tends to dial Sam's number, it seems. And he's really getting tired of this, because – well, yeah, he kinda feels sorry for Crowley, but that doesn't mean he's gonna forget all the shit he's put them through. Again – neutrality is fair.

But he thinks maybe he could keep in touch, because he might, possibly, need Crowley's help at some point.

Dean was willing to leave the Gates of Hell open just to save him. Those words, what he said… it lodged deep into Sam's mind and heart. Dean's greatest obsession, his greatest dream, a deed that would, in a way, sum up his life and be his liberation… and he was willing to let it go. He didn't even think about it. He tossed it away, just because it would demand Sam's death.

Sam swallows in the slowly dispersing darkness, squeezing his eyes shut, because they sting with upcoming tears. He was always the one willing to run away from this… this mightily unfair responsibility they have. No, it's not fair that they carry on just because they feel they have to, just because they know what's out there. But it's the _right thing to do_, and Dean always did it. Sealing the Gates of Hell closed would be the epitome of what Dean believes in, and he's sacrificed it for Sam.

So Sam needs to find another way. He thinks he has an idea, but he needs to do research first. Normally, he'd consult Cas right away, but well, what Cas knows, Dean will very soon start to suspect, and Sam doesn't want to put Castiel in a situation that would probably have some monstrous moral size for him – choosing whose trust to damage, his love's or his friend's. So no, he'll ask Cas, but later…

Which is where his idea could use a consult with Crowley. Which is why Sam will spend a few afternoons with a creepily emotional mostly-ex-demon on the phone, so that he can later ask his advice.

Sam sighs, his thoughts beginning to circle around after each other, looping in his head, and he thinks he really ought to get some more sleep before they have to get up. So he shifts a little, making himself more comfortable, and allows himself to drift off.

* * *

"Cas…"

"Mm-mh."

"Cas, c'mon, we gotta get up and get moving."

"Nnnnh…"

"Dude, there's a puddle outside the tent, I'm gonna haul you out of the sleeping bag and dump you into it, I swear," Dean resorts to threats, but Cas doesn't seem intimidated – he buries himself deeper in his sleeping bag, just a tuft of black, messed hair peeking out to the world. Okay – something else then. "Cas, I'm never gonna take you on another hunt again if you don't get your ass out of bed this instant!"

Now _that_ works. Cas slowly clambers out of the sleeping bag, flushed with sleep, hair all a chaos, eyes still drowsy but manifesting clear reluctance as they glare at Dean briefly. He looks adorable, and Dean allows himself to think this in the safety of his brain.

"I highly doubt you would willingly leave me behind so much and for so long," Castiel remarks slightly dryly, aloof, as he crawls on all fours in search for his jeans and a clean pair of socks, and damn the fucker, he's got a point, but Dean's not gonna admit that. "But you are right, I shouldn't let my affinity for late sleep conflict with the interest of a hunt," he goes Spock for a moment, having finally found his jeans, and Dean chuckles, watching him.

Cas lays back and begins tugging on the jeans, and Dean's smile slowly fades as his eyes widen hungrily, and he feels his blood begin to move south. Cas slides the fabric up his legs, and then lifts his hips, arching up off the floor to tug the jeans up to those sinful hipbones, his tee sliding down and exposing his slender midriff, and Dean closes his eyes for a moment, trying to hold back a moan. His own jeans get somewhat tight, because his cock doesn't understand it's hunting time.

Dammit, he's gorgeous…! Dude could model for those racy jeans ads.

"I'm coming in, I better not see anything indecent!" Sam's over-dramatically loud voice splashes a little bit of figurative cold water on Dean. Rolling his eyes, Dean's for the first time grateful for his brother's cock-blocking, because going for a hunt with a boner isn't exactly what he wants right now.

When Sam stumbles into the tent, he finds Cas lying on his back, having just buttoned his jeans, and Dean sitting in front of him, very possibly flushed (damn it). Dean tries his best to get the lust out of his eyes. Cas proceeds to pull on his socks.

They all finish getting dressed and have a quick breakfast (more bread with tinned tuna. Cas complains about the lack of coffee, Dean tells him to suck it up), then proceed to pack up their bags and the tent, and head out, following Sam's alleged certainty about the world's directions.

It's been raining on and off for the past few days, so there's a slight chill in the air this early in a morning, and Dean's made both Sam and Cas put on a light jacket. He doesn't want to find out if catching a cold or some other shit can cause Sam's healing process to go downhill, and they don't know much about Castiel's immunology as of yet. Another thing Dean's not willing to find out about by trial and error.

Sam's gradually getting better, his coughing sluggishly subsiding over weeks, Castiel still regularly drawing Enochian healing symbols on his forearms with an indelible marker. It looks like it's helping, and Dean can't wait to finally breathe with relief when he gets his little brother back in 100% shape.

He still can't calmly think about what had happened in that church, when Sam was about to finish the third trial… When Dean told him he will die if he does… The way he'd just said _"So?"_ – Dean almost blacked out when he heard that. The absolute lack of understanding in Sam's voice, zero comprehension as to why would that matter, why would that be even a marginal bother or a downside…

Jesus, Dean feels sick just thinking about it. His own brother, his kid Sammy. When did he… how could it… How did he think it wouldn't _kill_ Dean to see him sacrifice himself? When did Dean fuck up so mightily that he gave Sammy this idea?

He really is a screw-up. He can't even communicate to his closest ones that they _are_ his closest. That they matter, that he loves them, that he can't go on without them.

Well. Last month, he managed with Cas, at least a little. He's told him he loves him, and that he wants him to stay, for as long as Cas will put up with him. And he'd explained to Sam back in the church, told him how he matters and how he's willing to give up the whole Gates of Hell thing if that means keeping him alive. Good, that's good stuff. He just has to make sure he doesn't screw _this_ up now, with either of those two.

He adjusts the strap of his bag slung over his shoulder, and he glances at Sam and Cas walking by his side. They're discussing the case, something about the Wendigo hunting habits, and then Sam has a nerd moment when Cas drops some anthropological shit about the Wendigos in early history.

"Here, bitch," Dean grunts an hour later, throwing the bundled up tent at Sam who catches it on a slightly strained reflex, shooting a scowl back at Dean. "Your turn."

They occasionally talk as they make their way deeper still into the woods, but they take care to be quiet when they grow closer to the Wendigo-riddled area. It's daylight, but those things are hunters, so they sure know when they're being hunted, and they're not the type to hide away when in danger.

"Alright, visual contact, everyone," Dean mutters under his breath, scanning the surroundings, and keeping both Sam and Castiel in his line of sight. "We don't split up, and we don't get out of each other's sight."

"Dude, we know," Sam grumbles back quietly, also tense, shotgun in hands, though pointed down.

Castiel is surveying the terrain with that piercing look he has, lifting his head and resembling a hawk. He's also got his gun ready, but he holds it in one hand, while in the other he has his angel blade. Dean gets it, this is the weapon he's most comfortable with, but he's not sure that's a smart move when hunting one of those sons of bitches.

On his own part, Dean's got his shotgun fully ready to fire.

Every rustle and snap of twig is cause for alarm now. It's always a bird, a bunny or a falling pinecone, but each of those sounds shoots a sharp jolt of adrenaline through Dean's system, causing him to seamlessly twist and aim. The Wendigos are here – there are marks on the trees, a few of them fresh, just a day or so old, and each nerve in Dean's body is taut in anticipation and readiness of reaction.

And then there is the sound, the animal-like scream, between a roar and a howl, and it rapidly explodes just behind Dean's back, and he twists, finger already beginning to pull on the trigger-

"Dammit, Cas!" he gasps hoarsely when all he's faced with is his darling graceless angel, wide blue eyes staring down the barrel, mouth still open from the Wendigo imitation he'd just made. "You _trying_ to get yourself shot?" Dean hisses out furiously, lowering the gun. Beside him, Sam breathes out a wrecked gasp of relief.

"Why would I? Though I apologise, I should have alerted you both as to my plan…" Castiel is all guilt and remorse.

"Yeah, high-strung hunters here, Cas. Not a good idea to make Wendigo sounds behind their backs," Dean growls.

"I'm sorry. I thought it would be a good strategy to lure them out, which would give us the advantage of anticipating their arrival."

It _is_ a good idea, but Dean's not gonna say it, because he doesn't like the prospect of Cas walking around as live bait. Unfortunately, Sam thinks this is a good idea too, and unlike Dean, has no qualms about sharing that opinion with the world.

"Well… maybe we could do that," he says, and no amount of glaring from his own older brother seems capable of turning him into stone or something.

"I should leave the shotgun, so I don't appear dangerously armed," Cas is already sliding his bag off his shoulder, and handing the weapon to Sam. "But I will keep this," he turns to Dean in the exact moment when he's about to tell him there's no freaking way, and shows him the angel blade. "Dean? It is an efficient idea. And don't worry – my reflexes are quick. I can spot an incoming Wendigo easily enough."

There is this tinge to his tone, that stiff square to his shoulders and that reined-in look to his eyes, the way he holds himself straight before Dean. He's trying to show he's not useless, he's not a liability, he's not defenceless, and Dean gets it all, he does, really, but still… it's an instinct. But he's promised himself he's gonna do everything not to screw up with Cas, so…

"OK.," he mutters out through his clenched teeth. "OK., but we're sticking close. And you stay put, you don't go _anywhere_, understood?" he grips Cas by the back of his neck, and presses their foreheads together, staring both angrily and imploringly into the deep blue eyes. His fingers curl tenaciously in the short hair on Castiel's nape.

"Understood."

"Good," Dean says roughly, and lets go, stepping back reluctantly, gun at the ready. He then steps in again, and presses a quick, hard kiss to Castiel's mouth before pulling away for good.

"How _do_ you make those sounds, by the way?" trust Sammy to be interested in what's most important at the moment.

Cas shrugs, lifting an eyebrow, eyes wide.

"I don't know. I just do."

A moment later, Dean and Sam are concealed in a bunch of shrubs, back to back (Dean's facing the direction where Cas is, of course), guns at the ready, while Castiel is a few metres ahead, pacing a slow circle, opening his mouth wide every now and then and producing a chillingly accurate, loud Wendigo scream. It's creepy as hell, but Dean tries not to think about it, and he readjusts his grip on his shotgun, finger on the trigger, eyes set on Cas and the trees around him.

"I think I know how he's doing it," he whispers to Sam, not taking his eyes off his angel.

"Hm?"

"I'll bet ya he's speaking their language…" Dean murmurs.

Castiel is slowly pacing around as minutes crawl by in taut silence interrupted only by the imitated Wendigo calls. Dean doesn't know how long he's been sitting still in the shrubs when something finally gives the unmistakable rustle of a speeding Wendigo.

His eyes instantly snap in that direction, but the movement is over by now. But Dean's seen it and he knows where it is, and so does Cas who manoeuvres to face it. There's complete silence now, hard and thick, and so pressuring that it makes Dean's ears ring almost painfully as he tries to breathe as slow and quiet as possible, peering down the barrel of his shotgun.

Another rustle comes, from the opposite direction, speeding towards Cas who turns, and right then the first Wendigo charges again.

"Cas!" Dean shoots at the second Wendigo, but he's not quick enough to fire at the other, and he watches Castiel spin around, angel blade in his right hand as he makes a slashing arch with it just as an almost invisible force collides with him, toppling him to the ground.

There's a grunt, a scream, and something scurries away, Castiel already heaving himself off the ground, and Dean can see dark blood coating his blade. Damn it, he's fast, Dean thinks in stunned admiration, but shakes it off quickly, because the Wendigos will be coming out now.

Dean and Sam rush to Castiel, hopping over the shot Wendigo, guns at the ready, as more and more rustles begin to sound all around them, accompanied by snarls and growls, occasional glimpses of hunched, fast running forms glimpsing in between the trees. Sam manages to take down another one, but they've still got at least three on their hands. At least one of them is severely wounded from Castiel's blade.

Trouble with Wendigos is, they're clever and work good in groups, one providing distractions so that others can attack from behind. And there's no way of knowing which is a distraction and which an actual attack, until you're thrown on the ground and being clawed to death. So Dean's tense, trying to always be back to back with either Cas or Sam, as the inevitable moment of attack comes closer and closer and closer.

Another rustle speeds through the shrubs and tall grass, Sam taking a quick aim, and Dean turns around when a second one slithers fast behind him. He shoots, just as Sam fires at his own target, but Dean's Wendigo makes a sharp turn, he can see it, just barely, a blurred grey shape that's zooming forward, speeding towards Cas…

Dean wants to scream a warning, but Castiel is suddenly braced, and he makes a wide slash with his blade, cleaving the air almost horizontally, and he slices through the Wendigo's neck so deep that he almost takes the head clean off. Dark, sticky blood spills, some of it following Castiel's blade in a ribbon as he finishes the movement, before it all drops, more of it splashing from the falling Wendigo, spraying Dean and Castiel's clothes. It reminds Dean a little bit of Purgatory, but it also, right now, reminds him that Castiel is still something else, a battle-honed warrior, a fallen soldier of Heaven.

"Shit!" he can hear Sam's yell behind his back, followed by two frantic shots, and he spins around instantly, alert jolting through him, but he sees Sam hit his target with the second shot.

One more left. Sam and Dean reload their guns, keeping keen watch around, Castiel narrows his eyes, his intense gaze seems to filter through the trees. He can see the Wendigos much better than average human, that's clear, but still Dean sees he didn't get away – there's a rivulet of blood dribbling down his elbow, from a cut he probably got from the Wendigo that tackled him onto the ground.

The grass and shrubs move again, a serpentine zigzag slipping through them fast, and Dean and Sam both shoot, until finally Dean hits the target. He holds the gun at the ready still, just to be sure, and finally, when the forest remains silent, he releases a breath and relaxes his shoulders somewhat as he lowers his shotgun.

With another breath, he exchanges a look with Sammy who gives him a wide-eyed look in response, which then turns into some consternation as he takes in the blood and grime covering Dean, then his eyes transfer to Cas.

And the next shower is a day and a half's worth a walk away.

Fan-bloody-tastic.

"Alright," Dean wipes a relatively clean patch of his sleeve over his face, blinking to check if any of the blood is clotting over his eyelashes. "Let's get going back…"

Dean and Cas clear their hands and faces at least somewhat with the mostly untouched backs of their jackets, and Dean rolls up the sleeve of Cas' tee to check out the cut while he's at it. It slices through the back of his arm, rather long and slightly deep, so stitches it is as soon as they make camp. For now, Dean pours some water from his bottle over it, to clear it a bit, and tells Cas not to strain the arm. They gather their bags, Sam grabs the tent, and they start heading back.

"So, what's the score? Two, two, one?" Dean lists, pointing to himself, Sam and Cas.

"Uh, I think it's three, one, one, jerk," Sam contests the score. "I got the last one."

"What? No, dude, that was my shot!"

"Dean, you were way off, man," Sam scoffs haughtily.

"You need an eye doctor, bitch. Cas, who do you reckon hit the last Wendigo?" Dean looks over his shoulder at their silent third wheel.

"Dude, you can't go to Cas, he's biased!"

"That's exactly the point. So, Cas?"

Castiel regards the two expectant-looking brothers with a twinkling blue gaze, and he seems amused, a small smirk touching the corners of his lips. He tilts his head to side, peering at them, like he's fascinated by the pettiness of the squabble and enjoying it.

"I may be somewhat biased for Dean's benefit in subjective matters, but this is an entirely objective situation. Dean was indeed the one who shot the last Wendigo-"

"Hah!"

"-but I think he managed it largely because it was the same one I had injured in the initial stage of the hunt."

Dean and Sam linger, Dean's triumphant grin fading a bit, while, in compensation, a smug smirk stretches across Sam's face. Castiel's own smile grows a little before he asks if they can continue heading back.

* * *

It starts raining about four hours later, and soon the rain turns into a friggin torrent, small waterfalls pouring down from the sky, falling in a drowning curtain, and the whoosh rises to the level of roar. They plough on for a while, clothes plastered to their skin, raindrops the size of fucking hazelnuts drumming pretty damn hard on their heads. At least the downpour washes the blood absolutely clean off Dean and Cas, but when one of the rocky paths they're following turns into a small creek, they decide to veer off and set up camp and wait it out.

In streams of grey rain, Dean, Sam and Cas struggle to put up the tent, doing a less than half-assed job of it, but at last it's up, and they cram inside, dripping wet. Good job Cas is a little luggage-obsessed, and he's actually packed a towel for some unfathomable reason. Dean's made fun of him for it when they left the motel, but now he's about ready to worship him for it, and the son of a bitch seems to know it, it a brief smug glance is anything to go by. The towel is a wet, mangled rag by the time they're each done with it (Dean blames Sam's princess locks that sure contained at least a gallon of water). They don't have any jeans to change into, so they stay in boxers, but at least they have a clean T-shirt each.

Dean sterilises and stitches up Cas' wound, and puts a bandage around it just to be sure. He smiles, looking into the blue eyes, and gently runs a hand over Castiel's chest, slowly rubbing a thumb over the black anti-possession tattoo located just below the left collarbone. It was one of the first things Castiel got as a human, and Dean made it himself. He'd clenched his teeth all the way through it, listening to Cas' gasps and groans and yelps, since he was yet unaccustomed to the human strength of sensations and was hyperaware touch-wise, thus in pain throughout the whole procedure, but somehow they both managed to get through it.

Castiel's hand covers Dean's, and Dean looks up into his eyes again. Cas' hair is damp, wildly mussed, and his eyes are clear and calm, like the sky after a storm that's just passed, and a small smile touches his full lips. Dean feels his heart ache, and he leans in and kisses him softly.

"Guys, I'm _right here_," Sam's sulky complaint ruins the moment, and Dean deepens the kiss just to get on his brother's nerves, but soon they're pulling apart.

They eat, waiting for the rain to at least start letting up, but hours pass and there still is no change for the better. Dean's glad they made camp on a small hill, otherwise they'd probably end up being flooded. The evening is slowly beginning to fall, so they decide to simply go to sleep, since the early wakeup and exhausting hunt and march should put them down easily enough.

Dean burrows into his sleeping bag, scooting over close to Cas, oddly peaceful and contented. It's probably the tiredness, the onset of relaxation, and the weather. And the fact that he's finally dry. The rain is drumming against the taut fabric of the tent, and the sound is soothing, along with the loud, omnipresent whoosh all around the forest. It's grey and getting darker, and Dean lays on his back, watching the rivulets of water stream off the roof of the tent, their shadows sliding over his head.

Sam's monumental snoring revs up at some point, and Dean sighs, knowing he's gonna have a hard time falling asleep now, but he doesn't mind, not really. He's not sleepy, he's just content lying here and spacing out. No hunt anymore, and no rush to get anywhere, because the rain is keeping them here anyway. He's warm and dry, and its such a pleasant feeling that he just enjoys it.

Cas stirs to his right, and Dean rolls onto his side to see that he's not sleeping either, but definitely drowsy. It's almost completely dark now, a vague, grey darkness of a soft kind, and Dean moves closer, draping an arm over Cas' torso and pulling his back close to his chest, snuggling. Cas emits a contented sound, relaxing against Dean's chest, and Dean nuzzles his black hair, feeling the body warmth seep through the comfy sleeping bags.

And right now, he's content. He's really, really content. He smiles, pressing a kiss to the nape of Cas' neck.

"I love you," he whispers, barely breathes, into his skin.

Castiel snuggles further back into him, and his hair tickles Dean's nose.

"I love you too, Dean."

* * *

**The ending is kinda mushy, but I just couldn't help myself :P Those two make me want to drown in fluff!**

**Please review, they absolutely make my day all bright and shiny :D**


	6. 1967 Chevy Impala

**Sorry for the delay, busy times, exams coming up, essays (that should have been started in January) to put together.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter :D**

* * *

**6. 1967 Chevy Impala**

Dean wakes up warm and cosy, snuggled into Cas, with his head tucked under Cas' chin, face buried in the soft flannel of his tee. As he stirs and opens one eye to survey the situation, he sees that Cas must have rolled onto the other side in the night, and they ended up tangled in each other's arms. Dean smiles, and slowly nuzzles Cas' tee, snuggling a bit more into the lazy, inviting warmth of the embrace. Everything smells clear and Cas, filling Dean with idle peace, and the bright sun filters through the fabric of the tent, causing a dimmed brightness to linger inside.

He likes it here, in this warm corner under Cas' chin, breathing in his scent. Cas stirs lazily, and his arm tightens around Dean's waist as he makes a small sound in his thinning sleep, and Dean chuckles softly.

After a few minutes of calm and quietness, Dean feels duty prodding him so he reluctantly looks back over his shoulder to check up on Sam, to see he's not there. Before Dean's brain can produce the customary panic, he notices a piece of paper stuck to the zipped-up entrance: _Back soon_.

Good. With his conscience and sense of responsibility appeased, Dean turns back to snuggle into Cas again, only to find him blinking awake. He watches, smiling, as the blue eyes slowly lose some of the haze, focusing on him.

"Good morning," Dean gives his trademark charming smile, and reaches out to card a hand through Castiel's hair. Cas closes his eyes again for a moment, leaning into the touch.

"Good morning, Dean," he replies, looking into his eyes again, and moving closer.

Dean smiles and leans in, meeting him in a kiss. It's slow and languid, soft exploration of mouths, tongues sliding together. Dean pulls away and presses a kiss into the corner of Cas' lips, and proceeds to leave a slow trail down his cheek. He crawls out of his sleeping bag, pushing gently into Cas until he rolls him onto his back and gains himself access to that gorgeous slender neck. He kisses the curve of Cas' strong jaw, and proceeds lower, lazily tracing the spot just below with his lips.

Cas hums contently and appreciatively, his hands massaging up and down Dean's back, spreading a tingling warmth that always makes Dean just a little bit restless, wanting just a little bit more. And now is no exception, so he kisses a trail down Castiel's neck, licking the flavour off his lips in between the kisses, tasting the barest of hints – something sunny, with a tart tinge, and it gets him craving more. He bites down on the juncture of Cas' neck and shoulder, and licks the spot to soothe it, collecting some more Cas flavour. Sunny, tangy, with a hint of ozone.

Castiel moans softly, tilting his head back, and his warm breath carries the sound right into Dean's ear. His eyes fall closed, mouth parts a little as his hands slip under the hem of Dean's T-shirt, his throat is exposed. And well, now Dean's morning wood just got thoroughly reinforced.

He leans in to lay kisses on Castiel's throat, starting at the hollow at the base, and working his way up. And damn, he really, really wants to take this further, because he's been itching yesterday morning, too, and because morning sex with Cas is one of his very top favourite things in the world, but he doesn't know _when_ exactly Sam will be back.

Cas seems to remember that too, because they're kissing again, and he's slowing the pace down, trying to bring it back to lazy and sweet, and Dean complies. They're gonna have time alone later, he thinks, and going by the still needy hold Cas has around his waist, it's gonna be one hell of a great time. He already can't wait for it.

"I'm coming in, everything indecent better be covered!" Sam's voice heralds outside the tent, and Dean groans in reluctance, pulling away from a very awesome kiss he and Cas are having. What, Sam's got a radar that goes 'beep' whenever Dean's enjoying himself, so he can come in and ruin it?

Cas doesn't look much pleased either, and a fairly brilliant idea pops into Dean's head. He flashes Cas one of his special, charming-clever grins, and picks up his discarded T-shirt, tossing it over their heads as he swoops down for another kiss. Castiel chuckles into his mouth, and Dean hums in contentment. The fabric draped around them provides an additional, nice feeling of hiding away from the world, like the tent itself does, and Dean kinda likes it.

"Oh, come on!" Sam groans exasperatedly as he unzips the tent and clambers in, to the sight of the two of them making out under a tee.

"It _is_ covered, bitch," Dean puts a lot of smugness into his voice as he pulls minimally away from Cas, and returns to the briefly interrupted kiss, much to Castiel's pleased hum that tingles along Dean's spine.

"I can still see what your hands are doing," Sam mutters sourly, and Dean notches things up a bit by moving completely on top of Cas. "_Dean!_"

"I think our displays of intimate affection are disturbing Sam's psyche," Cas murmurs softly against Dean's lips.

"He can suck it up."

"No, he can't," Sam's angry voice drifts from beyond the cover of fabric. "Now stop that and let's get moving, you two can get yourselves another room once we get to the motel. In fact, you _have to_ get yourselves another room," Sam grumbles, and Dean can vaguely hear him pack some stuff into his bag, but he's much more focused on kissing Castiel.

Unfortunately, Cas seems to agree with Sam that it's time to get moving, because he pulls away from the kiss, giving Dean's lips an apologetic peck as he does so, and Dean grumbles good-naturedly, before pushing himself off of Cas. He pulls the tee off his head and throws Cas a hot stare full of promises, and gives himself bonus points for the parting lips and a light flush that comes onto his angel's face.

The jeans are damp and coarse and stiff, and Dean cringes when pulling on his pair. Sam, already dressed, doesn't seem thrilled either. As to Cas, he takes the discomfort with indifference, and Dean can't chase away the thought that being human must be uncomfortable for him in the first place, so one more bother or less, doesn't make a difference. It's a damn miserable idea, so of course it clings to Dean pretty much like his wet jeans do to his ass.

A quick breakfast, and they pack up. As Dean rolls up the flattened tent, he can't get rid of a small sense of regret. Damn it, it was nice, despite the hunt. A fun trip, and getting caught in that downpour was actually quite cool too – he liked the warmth and dryness afterwards, and snuggling with Cas in the evening. He liked hanging out with Sam and Cas like that, dangerously close to doing a regular family thing.

The forest is fresh and humid after the rain, and Dean breathes in deep, straightening up and stretching, clasping his hands above his head. The air smells so damp and cool, he picks up the scent of wet soil and moss, and he'd like to, maybe, go camping again. Well – they have the tent, right? No sense in wasting it…

Dean checks up on Cas' wound, is satisfied with lack of any complications, and tells him to put on his jacket, because there's a chill in the air after the rain. Same goes for Sam who tries to convince him that he's feeling warm, but Dean says he's heard enough of Sam hacking up his lungs for the last months, and he doesn't want to be hearing it one day longer than necessary.

But as soon as they head out, it turns out that the most uncomfortable thing isn't the wet jeans or the wet jacket. No.

It's the wet bloody shoes.

* * *

The trek back is slightly faster, because they know the way and don't have to stop every now and then to consult a map or case notes. Still, the shoes had no chance of drying during the night, and four hours into the march Dean is pretty sure his feet have been skinned to the bone and tendon. Sammy feels similar, if his pained expression is anything to go by, while Castiel takes the discomfort in his stride. He has this almost philosophical way in which he's now accepting minor nuisances that humanity brings him, and Dean's not sure if that's a good thing. Time will tell, he guesses.

At last, they make their way to the motel perched on the edge of the woods, and Dean downright runs to hug his Baby and check if she's fine and no idiots put any scratches on her. She looks fine, and Dean promises her not to leave her for so long again, to which Sam mutters something less than flattering about Dean's mental health and priorities. Dean flips him off, which spurs Sam on to very loudly ask Cas how in the world does he put up with Dean, and how could Dean possibly deserve him. It stings, because Dean often, fearfully, wonders about that himself, but then Cas opens his mouth and very seriously, very levelly, staring earnestly into Sam's eyes, simply declares that 'Dean is good', after which he seems ready to talk more, so Dean quickly rushes over to him and tells him to ignore the bitch. He shepherds Cas into the motel, Sam throwing him a pointed look that very clearly says _'You're way luckier than you deserve'_, and Dean silently agrees with it, deep inside.

Once in their room, they all with relief kick off the wet shoes and change into dry, clean jeans. Dean laughs, removing some dry pine needles that Cas has managed to get into his hair when he'd veered off the path for a moment to collect a few late berries he'd spotted on a shrub. He'd brought them all back to share with Dean and Sam, looking so faithful and approval-seeking that it damn near broke Dean's heart.

They all drop on the beds (they got a room with three singles, but Dean liberally falls back beside Cas on his bed) and stare at the ceiling for a long time, enjoying the blood circulation in their feet.

"So – long drive home," Sam finally speaks up, still zonked out and gazing into the ceiling. "Do we stay the night and move out tomorrow, or do we go now?"

"Hell, no, I'm beat," Dean instantly replies, reaching out to lazily stroke Castiel's head, slowly drowning his fingers in the black hair. "I wanna eat and hit the hay."

"Cas?" Sam asks, sounding like he makes some point to Dean, the bitch.

"I'm fine with whatever is decided," Castiel replies indifferently beside Dean, and the gravelly rumble of his words sends a small flash of shivers from Dean's ear down his neck. "I ride in the backseat, I can sleep there as well as here."

"Alright, tomorrow then," Dean authoritatively cuts off the discussion, and sighs, shifting a little closer to Cas, unable to resist brushing a kiss against his lips as he does so. His own mouth tingles, teased and craving, and his mind goes back to the nice session he and Cas had in the tent this morning. The slight restlessness returns, washing over him, and he thinks that maybe Sam's idea of getting another room might be a good one.

On his bed, Sam groans as he sees Dean kiss Castiel. His brother's been on-and-off horny for the past two days, Cas not much better, and Sam seriously doesn't want to bunk with them tonight. He knows they wouldn't have sex with him in the room, but he doesn't want to choke on the tension. And the eye-fucking.

His stomach grumbles, so he whines Dean and Cas into going out to get take-out from a local diner, and tells them to book themselves another room for the night. Dean flips him off, but the way he slides his hand into Cas' back jeans pocket (Sam did _not_ need to see that!) suggests he'll heed the order anyway. Sam hopes.

Another hungry gurgle bubbles in his stomach, but he's too tired to even reach for some water that would help dissolve some of the digestive juices and cheat the sharp sensation of hunger at least for a moment. He hopes Dean and Cas return quickly with the food, without stopping for any time-alone detours. He knows Dean will try, but he counts on Castiel's sense of duty that won't let the ex-angel keep his friend hungry while he has his food. So far, Dean hasn't managed to corrupt him.

His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket, picking up instantly and pressing it to his ear, already thinking about what he wants to eat, and assembling some choice words for Dean to hurry up.

"Yeah?"

"Hello, Sam."

The British voice on the other end of the line is scratchy-soft, and still has that disturbing sassy tune somewhere in the back, but it's much dimmer than it used to be, dulled down by the sombreness. Shit, not the person Sam really wants to be having a chat with right now… yeah, yeah, he was supposed to actually keep in touch with Crowley, but he's starving right now!

"Uh, hi, Crowley," he mumbles, not sure how to proceed.

"You were out of range for the last two days, did anything happen?" there isn't really _care_ in that voice (that would just be _too_ creepy, even for Sam's tolerance levels), more like curiosity.

"Uh… We were on a hunt. In the forest. No coverage," he explains. He almost wishes Crowley was all evil King of Hell again, because then at least he'd know how to speak to him – now he's not sure, he wants to treat him fair, but isn't sure what this should and should not entail. He's not really up for being friendly. More like… understanding? Something like that.

"Oh, I see. Was… was Cas – Castiel – with you?" there's a frankly amazing ring of respect in Crowley's voice and tone when he corrects himself, pronouncing Castiel's full name.

"Yeah, he was."

"…Could I… talk to him?" it's really surreal to hear Crowley be so insecure, and Sam thinks that it ranks among the top weirdest things in his life, which, considering his _curriculum vitae_, is saying a lot.

"He's not here," Sam says firmly. "And I told you, he doesn't want to talk to you. And Dean would hunt you down and kill you."

"Squirrel…" Crowley sighs almost nostalgically, and Sam doesn't want to contemplate why. "I want to talk to him, too. I have to make amends, Sam. I have to make amends," Crowley's tone becomes fervent, like he's trying desperately to make Sam understand, but Sam does very well understand. Very, very well. But it doesn't mean he feels like he owes Crowley anything. "Please… _please_ ask Castiel to reconsider. I will understand if he doesn't want to talk to me, of course. Just please ask him one more time."

Sam wants to say 'no'. He really, really wants to say 'no', he doesn't want to bring this up with Castiel, make his friend uncomfortable, bring back upsetting memories and doubtlessly summon bleak thoughts. He knows Castiel will grow silent for hours, will spiral down into the loop of guilt and self-loathing for all the things he had done, and which mentioning Crowley will remind him of, and Sam really doesn't want to trigger all that. Castiel is his friend, his best friend!

"Please, Sam, I have to… I have to atone, and I don't know where to even begin. So I thought I might begin with you three."

This hits Sam, and very directly, too. It's too much alike to what Crowley had asked him in that church, when the treatment was working its way into his system and making him face ideas and questions brought on by humanity. And now it all too much reminds Sam of something that just doesn't sit well with him.

"Listen, Crowley… I, uh… I guess I'm… I'm sorry? You know, for not finishing that treatment," he explains, and swallows thickly. "For… for leaving that demon bit in you."

A moment of silence that drags on, heavy. He can hear it, in a way, and it feels like a swamp. He hears Crowley take a breath and then linger for a moment, like he rethinks his choice of words.

"It's okay, moose," Crowley says melancholically, and Sam really wishes the treatment had an effect on his sense of humour and affinity for nicknames, too. "It's actually good. I guess it's part of my redemption, part of proving myself. You know what I mean, don't ya? Having this dark, poisoning thing in you, knowing it makes you impure, and having to fight it. Proving yourself. Thinking that if you keep on fighting it, and winning against it, you'll earn the right to try for redemption."

Sam struggles to swallow, something thick and hard filling his throat, causing it to clench. He feels sick and overwhelmed, sick to think that he has something in common with Crowley now, that they are, in one aspect, somehow alike, it turns his stomach and it makes his mind feel like exploding, unable to cope. In parallel, he suddenly finds a twinge of sympathy for the mostly-ex-demon, all too well understanding the sensation of mixed hope and self-loathing that rang in Crowley's hoarse voice.

No. No. It was a bad idea. He shouldn't have gotten into this conversation.

"I won't ask Cas…" he finally speaks, his voice croaky, and he clears his throat wetly. "I won't, man, I can't do this to him. But tell you what – if _he_ ever mentions you, on his own – I'll tell him."

"Thank you, Sam. How is he, by the way? Little birdie tells me he's – well, graceless, you could say."

"Yeah, he is," Sam bristles up defensively.

"Poor bastard. Has to be tough, right?"

Sam pointedly (and perhaps frostily) stays silent.

"Alright, sorry. And thanks again, Sam."

"OK.," Sam ends the call.

He runs a hand over his face and breathes, a slow inhale, followed by low exhale. He can do this. He can endure a few conversations with the emotionally unbalanced human-demon hybrid, and ask his opinion on a demon-neutralising idea.

He can do this. For Dean, he can do this.

* * *

Come evening, and Sam's noble, brother-loving thoughts fly clean out of his head.

Because he's trying to watch a half-assed history documentary on the crappy TV in their room, but Dean insists on less-than-discreetly molesting his boyfriend on the next bed, and some sounds or peripheral-vision sights just can't be drowned out, no matter how much Sam tries to focus.

"Can you two just stop groping each other for _five freaking minutes_?!" he finally explodes.

Cas has the grace (pun not intended) to look sheepish when he pulls away, slipping his hand out from under Dean's shirt, but Dean just throws Sam a smug grin, draping an arm around Castiel's shoulders and running a hand through his hair. Sam fights the urge to throw the remote at him.

When Dean and Castiel returned with takeout, they also brought the news that there were no other rooms available in the motel. Sam instantly demanded that they keep it decent, which Dean naturally took as a challenge.

They aren't normally like that when in motels on a hunt, luckily. Actually, this is the first time Sam is uncomfortable sharing a room with them, and it's largely because Dean is being a pain in the ass and doing some stuff on purpose, just to get on Sam's nerves. Sam likes to watch them cuddle, not make out, damn it!

Eventually it's goodnight time, and Sam drifts off quickly, tired from the long march and the chat with Crowley.

On his own part, Dean can't fall asleep nearly as easily. He's tired, and his thoughts get a bit hazy around the edges, but he just can't drop completely. There's a thrumming sense of energy in his body, as well as in his mind, and it makes him restless as he tosses and turns to the background noise of Sam's snoring.

He can't seem to get comfortable, even though in his life he's slept on countless lumpy motel mattresses, most of them long past their life expectancy. One thing or other keeps bothering him, he's either too warm or too cool, and he's reached the point where anyway he lies, will be unpleasant. On top of everything, he misses sleeping with Cas. This realisation is one of very few clear thoughts that glimpse in the tiring blur of his half-active brain, and he opens his eyes, staring into the ceiling of the dark room.

Over the past two months, he and Cas shared bed literally every night now. It was a damn welcome thing to begin with, but now Dean realises it's also become a comfort. One that he definitely wishes for now. He's gotten used to falling asleep with Castiel in his arms, or the other way around, to the warmth of Cas' body, and the way the mattress dips under his weight. He's gotten used to his even breath, to his occasional light snoring (he finds it adorable, a thought that will _never_ leave his mouth) and to his scent that now permanently lingers in his sheets and pillows.

(What he hasn't gotten used to, are the nightmares, but this is something they both have, and at least now the shared pain is easier to deal with, as they take care of each other alternately.)

He's uncomfortable again, so he rolls onto his side, and peers at the dark, hazy shape of the neighbouring bed. He can make out Castiel's night-blurred silhouette, buried haphazardly in the blankets. As always, they rode down his form, tangling and wrapping around his body. His back is turned to Dean, and his tee has bunched up slightly above his waist, revealing a glimpse of skin, a mat, barely existent light touching it softly. He's breathing evenly, and Dean hopes he's asleep.

Even though the longer he looks at him, the more restless he's getting. Damn it. He's been having an on-and-off itch in his pants for over two days now, and no opportunity to do anything about it.

Now he's too warm, and he kicks his feet free of the blanket. He rolls onto his back and sighs, tired and unpleasantly on edge, and he throws a flexed arm over his eyes, swallowing before he sighs again.

The mattress dips suddenly, and Dean almost jumps, yanking his arm away from his eyes.

"You can't sleep," Castiel's whisper is as soft and half-surreal as the dark greyness of the night filling the room.

Dean gapes for a moment, because in this darkness, Castiel's electric blue eyes seem to glow for a moment as he stares down at Dean, seated on the edge of his bed. His hair is a wild mess, and there's soft interest and concern on his face. Dean unfreezes.

"Yeah…" he breathes, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, while he reaches out with his other hand to stroke it up and down Castiel's arm. "I'm just… riled up, I guess. Did I wake you up?"

"No. I was awake as well," Castiel whispers back, inching closer, till he leans in and kisses him.

"Hmm…" Dean whispers, flooded with both a relief and an increase of restlessness, and he runs a hand through Castiel's hair, pulling him closer, wrapping his other arm around his waist, until he's got his angel laid mostly on top of him.

He curls his fingers in the hair at the base of Cas' head, and he runs his tongue over Castiel's lips, asking to deepen the kiss. Cas eagerly complies, but only to pull back a moment later, changing the angle, and kissing Dean again, licking his lips, and changing the angle back again. It's a velvety soft, wet, pleasurable tease, and Dean feels heat coil in his stomach as their mouths and breaths mould together, lips soft and damp, Castiel's weight shifting gently against him with a quiet whisper of fabric in the darkness.

Dean breathes out a deep exhale, feeling a strange juxtaposition of relief and arousal wash over him. He meets Cas in another kiss, and his hands slide down his back, fingers finding the hem of his tee, beginning to sneak it up, tracing the exposed flesh underneath.

"Dean…" Castiel breathes, pulling away, and in the darkness Dean thinks he spots a flush on his cheeks. His blue eyes are hazy, pupils wide. "Dean, Sam is here…" whispers, though he looks like he really doesn't want to say that.

Right. Damn his brother. Dean is quite painfully hard, and he's got Cas in his arms, stretched on top of him, and the over-two-days-long craving is really heating his blood. He feels like he kind of has no options, which is why and when he gets an idea.

He looks into Castiel's shining eyes, and he grins, tightening his hold around his waist for a moment, causing their hips to press closer together, which makes Cas gasp.

"C'mon," Dean whispers, squirming to push Cas off. "I've got an idea."

The lack of conviction in Castiel's eyes, upon hearing Dean's words, is probably somewhat justified, but Dean is adamant, flashing him a promising smirk as he gets out of bed. Quietly, they put on their jeans and shoes, and Castiel follows Dean out of the room, Dean agonisingly slowly closing the door, praying for Sam not to wake up.

Sam remains asleep, and Dean leads Cas down the corridor, their feet padding on the mangy carpet, and soon they are outside, heading across the parking lot. When Cas sees Dean make a beeline for the Impala, understanding fills those incredible, liquid-blue eyes, followed by a tinge of consternation, so Dean encourages him with another charming grin.

There are no signs of life around, even the highway nearby is silent in the dead of night, and Dean opens the backdoor, sliding in. He sits back against the window of the opposite door, and tosses Cas a half-inviting half-challenging smirk, and just as he'd expected, Castiel follows him inside.

They cram together into the backseat, a bit of a feat for two men who, averaged out, are each six feet tall, but necessity is the mother of invention, and _damn_ is there necessity right now!

Dean grins, pulling his T-shirt off, toes off his shoes, slides down so he's lying on his back, and pulls Castiel down into a kiss. Cas feels a bit unsure at first, but as Dean languidly explores his mouth, he can feel him relax, his marginal tension evaporating, and soon Dean finds the action happening in his own mouth, but with what Cas' tongue is doing, he's far from complaining.

He slides his hands down Cas' sides and starts pushing the tee up again, and Cas sits up, straddling his hips, allowing Dean to yank the shirt off him. Dean falls back onto the upholstery, staring up, taking in the lithe body, blue eyes and mussed hair above him, for a moment only capable of vaguely reaching up with his hands and resting them on Castiel's waist, just above the hem of his jeans. He's gorgeous, slender, with lean muscles under pale skin, and the inky blackness of the anti-possession tattoo is causing Dean's stomach to twist and flip, blood rushing south.

Castiel leans in, hovering over Dean, bracing his hands on either side of Dean's shoulders, and he's lowering himself slowly, dipping his head and letting his hot breath wash over Dean's throat before he unhurriedly moves to find his mouth again. Dean is aching, running his hands up Castiel's sides, leaning up to force the kiss that his angel is delaying. Castiel bites gently on his lower lip, and Dean moans as he then proceeds to lick his way into his mouth.

Dean grips Castiel's hair again, angling his head as he takes charge of the kiss, and Castiel lets him, but he's pulling away soon. He's kissing down Dean's throat, and Dean moans again, feeling the hot lips, tongue and teeth tease his skin, and he moves his hands to Cas' hips again, sliding in between their bodies, then undoes the button and zipper and begins tugging the jeans down Castiel's shapely ass.

Cas hums, his mouth kissing across Dean's cheek, and he reaches Dean's ear, kissing it briefly, before he takes the earlobe into his wet, hot mouth, and sucks on it.

"Cas…!" Dean moans, his hips involuntarily bucking up as a jolt of pleasure shoots through him.

Their hips rub together, causing Castiel to groan around Dean's earlobe, and it's like a ricochet, the vibrations resonating through Dean's hypersensitive flesh, and he's gone, pushing Castiel's jeans down with urgency.

Some time later, sticky, sweaty, panting and almost painfully pleasurably spent, with Castiel downright liquefied, sprawled over his chest, Dean thinks he now can honestly say he's spent most of his very best moments in life in his Impala.

* * *

**There ya go :) Some holy lovin' in the Impala, and Crowley is back, as promised.**

**Next chapter might take a while, because June is riddled with exams, essays and presentations for me, but I'll do my best to update in between!**

**Review, please! Help keep me alive through the exams :P**


	7. The reason I won't break

**A bit about Gabriel, because I MISS THIS SASSY BUGGER MORE THAN WORDS CAN TELL!**

**So anyway, I should be studying for my exams, but noooo...**

**This chapter is quite important and feels-y and fluffy, especially the ending, because each of the three boys is headed for a self-realisation in this story, and Dean's takes a step forward in this chapter :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**7. The reason I won't break**

It turns out, Cas is allergic to lilies.

The way they find out about this, is actually really damn sad. It's on 29th September, and the evening of the day before Cas had shyly, awkwardly, asked them at dinner to drive somewhere. 29th September is a holiday attributed to the archangel Gabriel, and Castiel wishes to pay homage to his dead brother. The nervously and hesitantly expressed wish makes Dean's heart twist deathly in his chest, filling him with compassion, because – yeah, he knows where Cas is coming from.

And so, on 29th September, bright and early (actually, still-dark-and-early) they load up into the Impala and drive to the Hotel Elysian. Not much is said on the way, Cas quiet in the backseat as he watches the dawn beginning to break through the night as they drive along the highway. Nothing really is said, but Dean can see Sam shooting Cas his soulful puppy-eyed gazes through the rear-view mirror, and he knows his baby brother is overflowing with something sappy and touchy-feely-analytic to say. Probably being within Dean's slugging range is what's keeping his mouth shut.

Time passes, dawn rips the night apart and they drive into hazy, vague blur of greyness that steadily grows brighter, until a sharp beam of fiery orange pierces through it. It hits the windows, falling in crisp clarity over Castiel's face, laying deep shadows and bright lights over his features and filling his eyes, blazing in his dark hair, and Dean watches him through the mirror for a moment. He's silent, really, really silent, but somehow Dean doesn't smell a crisis in it all. He's grown very attuned to Cas' moods and signs they give off, and he doesn't think Cas is about to have a breakdown, he's just… yeah, grieving. In a quiet, distant way, because it has been almost four years since Gabriel died.

Yeah, okay, Dean might have mostly hated the son of a bitch (a 100+ deaths is something a wee bit hard to get over), but still, he saved their lives at the end. And he got himself killed in the outcome. That's rough, and it's also something that earns respect. Turns out, Gabriel was not all a clown and a selfish dick.

He wonders what kind of a brother was Gabriel to Cas. Seems like they had been close at some point, but Dean doesn't press, because yeah, not keen for a trigger here.

On the way, they pass through a town, and Castiel asks to stop when he spots a florist. Dean and Sam stare after him with confusion as he gets into the store, and then returns to the Impala moments later, carrying a single, long-stemmed white lily. Sam makes an elucidated "Ooooh…" sound, one of those non-explanatory things that leave Dean feeling like the moron in the room (which, sandwiched between Sam and Cas, he feels a bit often).

Once in the backseat, Cas peers up at Dean, and spots his puzzled expression. He shifts, a little awkward.

"I… the white lily is a symbol given to Gabriel in art," he explains, a little timidly. "I… felt it would be fitting."

Dean nods, not really knowing what to say, but Sam is all a sappy smile on his lyrical face.

"I think it's perfect, Cas," he says in that heartfelt tone most people reserve for when they try to oversell a role in amateur theatre.

Dean rolls his eyes, but actually wishes he had something to tell Cas, too. Something that would make him feel better and assured in his choice. But, as usually, he doesn't have the words. So he looks at him through the rear-view mirror again, and meeting Cas' eyes, he with relief sees that Cas seems to know what he's thinking.

Five minutes later, Cas starts sniffling a bit, all of which turns out to be a build-up to a humongous sneeze. If Dean and Sam are surprised (seeing Cas sneeze is a bit like seeing a duck perched on a tree – you know it's a bird, but still there's just _something wrong_ there), Castiel is shocked. His eyes are wide, filled with one giant question mark and some traces of panic.

"Cas?" Dean asks, glancing in the mirror, trying to reassure in a manner of pre-emptive strike before Cas has a chance to panic. "You okay there, buddy?"

"…I sneezed," Castiel says in a tone of surprised discovery. Dean huffs a small chuckle.

"Yeah, we kinda noticed that… So, are you-" he's cut off by another sneeze from Cas, followed by more sniffling as he starts blinking his eyes. "Whoa!"

"I think he's allergic," Sam says worriedly, peering probingly at Cas over his shoulder, watching him rub his eyes with a free hand.

"Ya think so, Columbus?" grouses Dean. "Damn, Cas, we should ditch the flower, you're gonna-" another sneeze, "-explode…"

"No, I wish to keep it," Castiel's firm declaration loses some power of pathos when he sneezes again, tears beginning to gloss his eyes that turn red from rubbing.

He looks hilarious – dazed, wide-and-red-eyed, with crazy hair and perpetually surprised expression on his face as the sneezes sneak up on him.

"Dean, stop the car, I've got an idea," Sammy offers.

A moment later, the lily is stashed in the trunk, and damn, if this isn't an expression of love on Dean's part to not care that his Baby will smell flowery, then he doesn't know what is.

* * *

The Elysian is pretty much in ruins. It's deserted, crumbling and gapingly silent, and Dean and Sam tread carefully, weapons at the ready, just in case. Kinda hard not to venture in unarmed, after being initially held here as snack material for a hungry bunch of gods. A lot of them are dead now, but Dean tries not to think about it, tries not to revisit those nightmarish times when Lucifer was steadily closing in on Sam.

They slowly progress through the corridors, finally reaching the room where it all had happened, and where Gabriel saved their hides, telling them to take the goddess Kali and get out. Where the two archangel brothers had a standoff that nobody had witnessed.

The room is wrecked, telling a story of an explosion and utter destruction, with broken furniture and stained walls, all of it additionally broken and weakened by the passage of time.

And there it is. On the floor, a blackened imprint of two large wings spanning across, the mark surprisingly untouched, not shielded by dust or dirt or any other thing, as if the spot radiates with energy. And maybe it does, Dean thinks, and he slowly exhales, lowering his gun and staring at the black mark. As he takes a few steps closer, he can feel a vague, dull thrum lingering in the air, but maybe it's his imagination playing tricks on him.

There is no body, and Dean doesn't know what to make of it, but Cas doesn't seem alarmed, so he figures it's okay, maybe vessels sort of dissolve after angels die, who knows.

Sam looks like he really wants to put a hand on Castiel's shoulder, but he stops himself, and Dean is grateful, because Cas is mildly shut-off, very calm and very steady as he passes by between the two of them, and stands just on the edge of the gap between the wing imprints.

He's holding the lily in his hands, head lowered as he gazes down onto the floor, and he occasionally sniffles a little, but he seems not to even notice that. Dean bites on his lip as he watches him. He knows that what Castiel needs now is to be undisturbed, he doesn't want to be touched, held or comforted, and Dean's okay with that, but the silence, which seems comfortable and natural to Cas, is beginning to choke him. He clenches his teeth.

Castiel bows his head over the flower, the gesture smooth and born of sheer reverence, with elegance that Dean has never seen before in his life, and right now he knows this is an angel bowing his head, not a human. Cas then slowly goes down on his knees and places the white lily right in the middle of the gap between the wing imprints, letting his fingers linger on the stem of the flower for a while, eyes closed. Dean can see the pensive, intense frown of his eyebrows, and the short, dark eyelashes laid on his cheeks as he thinks.

Then, Castiel gets up, slowly, with peace and steadiness in every move he makes, and he turns to face Dean and Sam, his eyes brighter and calmer, filled with levelled tranquillity. Like a piece of a puzzle in the universe has just been fitted into place, a place he doesn't like, but which makes him feel just a little bit more complete all the same.

"We can go," Castiel speaks, his voice somehow not at all disrupting to the silence around them. "Thank you both for bringing me here."

"…You sure you're okay?" Sam asks, tentative, peering at him with that pained and caring gaze.

Castiel turns his head, sending Sam just the vaguest of smiles.

"I'm perfectly fine, Sam. This visit has reinforced my missing of Gabriel, but it has also let me some… closure, I believe is the term humans use, yes?"

Sam cracks a small, weak smile.

"Yeah… yeah that's it. But… you sure you're okay? I mean – don't you wanna… you know, say something?"

Dean's just about ready to (very bloodily and very violently) make himself an only child. Luckily, and for some unfathomable reason (damn you, Sammy!), Cas doesn't get triggered, doesn't get upset. He merely frowns, puzzled, and tilts his head to the side.

"Why would I want that? He's dead, he cannot hear me," the calmness and softness with which he says it, sort of takes Dean's breath for a moment. Damn, he's coping good… then again, maybe angel bros isn't the same as human bros.

"Uh…" Sam flushes red. "I dunno, it's just… people do that, you know. Closure. And… it helps, it…" he's so, so red now, and Dean suddenly feels his heart freeze. Because, holy fuck, now he realises that Sam… Sam must have been talking to Jess. A lot. And all he wants, is to help Cas now.

"I see," Castiel says softly, and Dean knows he's realised the same thing Dean just did. "But I don't think I would know what to say."

"Well – what would you say if he could hear you?" Sam prompts, hesitant, helpful.

Castiel thinks for a moment, studying Sam who shifts uncomfortably, then Dean who, in contrast to awkwardness of the past, now feels comfort from having this intense, all-encompassing gaze take him in. It feels secure, it feels like being read by the only person who can see through him to the core, and who accepts him despite – or, actually _because _– of what he sees there.

And then Castiel's lips tug in just the barest of hints of a smile, and he turns to look at the flower-adorned wing marks of his brother scorched into the ground.

"Thank you for saving them, brother."

* * *

Sam would call the ride home a catharsis. Somehow, there is something purifying and peaceful in their return, even despite the grief that still lingers.

Gabriel… yeah, Gabriel might have been a prankster dick, but all in all, Sam saw beyond that. Already with the whole Mystery Spot nightmare, at the end of the ordeal, Sam saw compassion. When Gabriel actually took pity on him and made things right. It surprised Sam, because Gabriel – back then the Trickster – didn't really have a reason to do that, to be compassionate.

And then the next time they met, and found out he was the archangel Gabriel… the anger and sadness and hurt love, all of that screamed so clear in his eyes when he stood, trapped in the ring of fire, talking about his family.

Sam got him, in a way. Running away from the ones you loved, because it was too painful to stick around, defying father's orders, seeking a life for yourself… yeah, he's been there. So it was kind of hard not to feel some sympathy for Gabriel.

Or grief and guilt when he gave his life to stand up to Lucifer.

Sam turns away from Dean, peering out a window. He doesn't want Dean to see his face right now. _Poor Gabriel_, is a persistent thought in his head, and he can't chase it away.

"He would have been happy," Castiel's voice causes both Sam and Dean to twitch and look back at him, Dean's eyes soon returning to the road.

"How do you mean?" Sam dares to ask, because Cas doesn't look depressed. He's sad, pensive, but peaceful.

"He wished for our brothers and sisters to stop fighting. He wished for it all to end. And – it ended. They are all fallen now. And he would have been the only one happy…" a scowl of pain passes through his face, and Sam wants to hug him. "There's equality now. Some seem to have found life as humans, and all the others are united in searching for a way back into Heaven. He would have been happy. It's a shame and a… testimony to bizarre unfairness that he cannot be here now."

"Yeah, you don't say," Dean says in an oddly choked voice.

"He was the first archangel to die. And the only angel to truly die for the cause that we made ours, back then."

"Yeah…" Dean whispers wetly. "Poor son of a bitch. Story of our lives, huh, we do something good, we get ganked."

"I don't think it's fate, Dean, I believe it's circumstances," Castiel's voice is soft and soothing, and Sam feels there's something more to the exchange than the words between Dean and Cas. "It's not destiny or higher power handing out a rotten reward. It's… circumstance. Had it been different, Gabriel would have lived. Had others been, different, others would have lived."

"Dragonfly's eye?" Dean asks in that half-sarcastic voice he adopts when he asks about things that actually truly matter to him, and while Sam has no idea what this means, he feels something important is going on.

"No, not quite. For some actions in those circumstances, we are the ones responsible. For some, I am the one responsible," Casiel grows hushed, and Sam feels a sting of compassion.

"Cas…" Dean begins half-threateningly, but Castiel interrupts.

"Dean, please. I know what I did, and I know what consequences those deeds had. Still have. You told me yourself, that I just have to move on. I try to live with them, and repent however I can."

"Good," Dean says gruffly.

Silence falls, until Cas gives a small sneeze and begins sniffling again. Apparently, some pollen had settled in the car and is teasing his newfound allergy, and Sam searches through his pockets, until he finds a small, mangled plastic packet, and leans over the backrest of his seat, offering it to Cas.

"Kleenex?"

"Yes, thank you."

* * *

Back in the Batcave, Cas heads for the shower. Normally, Dean would have joined him, but, on occasions, there are showers that Cas takes as some sort of weird therapy, where he needs to be alone, and this is very clearly one of them, so Dean just nods and lets him disappear. Soon, he can hear the water running.

It reminds him they're due for a laundry (another session of excitement and suspense with their temperamental laundromat that enjoys occasionally spewing water all over the floor, freezing midway a wash and refusing to open, or swallowing a sock into the drain), so he courses through his and Cas' bedroom with a hamper, collecting dirty clothes. They're mostly his, because Cas often takes his dirty clothes to the laundry room, but he scoops a few socks and tees of his angel's as well.

Moving into the Batcave had the exciting perk of Dean getting his own room. It was freaking fantastic – all the square metres for him to dump clothes and stuff all over without anyone whining, without Sammy's bitchfaces, a territory of his own. It was damn great and felt like freedom. Then, after the fall of the angels, Cas, who had his own room as well, started visiting – sleepovers when he had a nightmare, then sex, then spending a few nights and days in a row. Gradually, his belongings – the few he had – began making their way into Dean's room as well, and Dean found he likes it.

Roughly two months ago, Cas became a permanent fixture, and Dean started thinking about the room as 'theirs'. It has a nice, doubly possessive ring to it, and he definitely likes it. Sharing the bed and the room with Cas, their things mingling together. Cas keeps his stuff in neat state of order, but never bitches about the mess Dean makes, it doesn't even seem to bother him at all. Dean freaking loves this guy.

Trying not to feel like some Stepford Wife, Dean makes rounds about the room, picking up dirty clothes and checking jeans pockets for fragile items. Out of a pair of Cas', he produces a half-eaten and re-wrapped honey lollipop, a lighter (every hunter's necessary accessory, Dean is so proud), and a piece of string. In case the latter is some highly valuable treasure, he places it along with the other two items on the nightstand which happens to be by Cas' side of the bed (Cas' side – son of a bitch already has his side, and Dean just can't stop a huge, moronic grin from breaking out on his face when he thinks about it).

"Sammy, laundry, got anything dirty?" he hollers as he walks into the laundry room, neighbouring the bathroom.

"Yeah, hold on!"

While Dean is trying to horse-whisper the laundromat as he measures out the washing liquid, Sam appears, carrying a few T-shirts and some underwear, which he dumps into the machine's belly.

"Listen, Cas' allergy made me think…" he says pensively, as he straightens up.

"Yeah, you need more reasons to think," Dean scoffs, and squints at the instructions booklet.

"Shut up. Look, we don't know anything about what kinds of allergies he's got, or what he's immune to, like children's diseases and stuff… I mean, we gotta find out something, don't you think?"

Dean rolls his eyes, agitated, not liking the prospect, because he knows it'll make Cas think about the past and shit.

"What are we gonna do, call Jimmy's wife and ask her if Jimmy's had chickenpox? Great idea, Sammy," he scoffs, to which Sam delivers a laboured sigh and a massive eyeroll.

"No, dude, I mean _ask Cas_. He's gotta know, right, I mean – he bunked with Jimmy for some time in that vessel, right? So I think he can find out and tell us. He does that, you know, like delving into a part of his knowledge he's got stored up in his brain but hasn't yet touched, and learns from himself."

Yeah, Dean knows that. But he doesn't want to bring up the subject of Jimmy with Cas, because this is bound to lead nowhere good. Cas never was good with dealing with guilt, and now he's gotten even worse.

"I dunno, Sammy," he mumbles gruffly, dumping what is probably an overdose of washing liquid into what he hopes is the right compartment (seriously, who makes damn picture instructions so confusing? Damn Sammy for insisting to switch to liquid from powder!). "I mean, I don't know much, but he's got the standard two scars on his left arm, so we know he's vaccinated for smallpox and that other shit, what is it?"

"Tuberculosis, Dean."

"Yeah, that. So I dunno, maybe we can just roll with that," he slams the compartment shut.

"Are you serious?" Sam asks with disbelief.

Dean turns to him and gives him a shrug.

"Dude, we have to find out, do you want him coming down with something just because we didn't know about it, because we didn't get him a shot or made sure he avoided something?"

"Yeah, well, I don't want him spiralling into depression because he thinks of something when we discuss Jimmy," Dean hisses. Sam sighs.

"Dude… I know, I get it, believe me, I don't want to upset him either, but… Dean, I think you're smothering him a bit." There has to be something really freaky on Dean's face, because Sam makes a weird noise and hurries with explanations. "I mean, I get it, you care for him, you love him, you want him to be safe-"

Dean bristles, almost hissing, because the smug bitch just _had to_ work the love thing, didn't he? Yes, Dean loves Castiel and yes, he's told him that on a few occasions, but Sam doesn't need to stick his smarmy, ridiculously pointy nose into this.

"-and it's great, believe me, Dean, it's great. But… I dunno, you can't just mother-hen him, he gotta decide on his own what he can and what he cannot handle. And he's strong, Dean. I know you know it too. He's not gonna break just from anything," Sam ends with a small, warm smile, and Dean grumbles, looking away.

Because Sammy is right, of course he's right, but Dean just can't get over this fear of everything falling apart. Because he's _happy_ now, and whenever he's been happy in the past, it all came crashing and burning down very damn quickly. A day of happiness was bought with roughly a week of suffering later on. And this thing he has now – with Sam safe, with Cas… He just can't. He can't lose it, he _can't_, because he knows there just wouldn't be an option for him to fucking _exist_ afterwards, so he can't.

"I know, Sam, but I just…" he breathes out a rushed sigh. "I can't man."

"I don't wanna upset him either, Dean, but I think a day of bad mood is fair price for medical safety. You _do_ know chickenpox can kill after thirty."

"When _left uncured_, you dick! Stop trying to scare me into submission, I'm not _that_ big of an idiot!" Dean snaps.

"I'm just trying to look out for him, like you are!" Sam growls back.

Dean's taking a breath to say something more, but they are interrupted.

"You know, even though I'm no longer a celestial being, I can still hear you two," Castiel's voice is muffled by the walls and small distance, but they both can hear this vague, sparkling amusement he sports sometimes.

They turn, to see Castiel approach the laundry room door, half-smiling at them, eyes twinkling as he runs a towel over his wet hair. He's dressed in his sleeping bee T-shirt and boxers, clearly deciding to call an early night, and he's peering at them with some amusement.

"Especially when you're standing under an air vent," he adds, and both Dean and Sam, as if on command, whip around to see the vent connecting the laundry room with the bathroom. Well, shit.

Though Cas looks like he's enjoying the situation in that mildly smug way of his, so some of Dean's fears evaporate.

He smiles and approaches Cas, taking the towel in his hands and drying Cas' hair for him, because he's never really mastered the efficient technique. Either that, or he's being sloppy on purpose, because he likes Dean massaging his head, and Dean has a sneaky suspicion it's the latter. Not that he complains. He grins, rubbing the shaggy mop as dry as it can get now, and pulls Cas in, pecking him on the lips. He pulls away, and his grin grows when he sees Cas smile.

"Dean, Sam is right."

"Dude – don't ever say that, it kills the mood for like ten years," Dean scowls painfully, causing Cas to emit a quiet chuckle. And as girly as it is, Dean feels a small tingle in his chest at the sound.

"My apologies," the sweet, insincere bastard.

"So, uh… you're OK?" Dean makes sure.

"Of course. I can tell you that, due to Jimmy's experiences, I am immune to children's age diseases, and also not appear to be allergic to anything beside lilies and two other flowers. And because I know you've been wondering about it, I can tell you that Jimmy's soul is no longer in… in my body," he explains.

"Uh… what happened?" Sam asks hesitantly, and Dean reins in the urge to cuff him upside the head.

"When I… expelled the souls I'd taken from Purgatory," Cas shifts a little, frowning for a moment, but he seems to mentally clench his teeth and get over it, "Jimmy's soul left as well, ascending to Heaven. He is at peace, where he belongs."

"Oh," Sam says in a small voice, and smiles. "Well… that's good."

"Yes," Castiel smiles back. He then turns to Dean. "Dean…?" he asks in a voice tinged with an inviting tone, and Dean is with him 100%.

He turns to Sammy, giving him a smirk.

"You bought the liquid, you do the laundry," he says. "And _don't_ bother me even if the machine friggin explodes," he adds with a smug threat. Sam catches onto the message and winces when he realises what plans Dean has for the next couple hours.

Dean follows Cas into their room.

Later, they're lying in their bed, warm, having come down from the high of climax, their breaths slow and peaceful now, sweat mostly dried from their skin, and they're tangled together in an embrace, Dean's fingers lazily tracing Castiel's side.

It's good and it's perfect and it's wonderful, and it's _theirs_. This peace, this pleasure, this sense of bond that Dean can feel, and which relaxes him completely. This life is theirs, because they each finally worked up the courage to reach for it, and Dean's insanely happy with his choice. And from what he can see, he thinks Cas is happy, too.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?" he murmurs, nuzzling Castiel's hair, and dropping a lazy kiss on his temple.

"Do you remember when I told you I won't break?"

Dean's arm instinctively wraps tighter around Castiel's waits, and he swallows.

"Yeah…" he remembers that talk, in the night, in their bed, promises and reassurances whispered back and forth between the sheets.

"I… didn't tell you why I know I won't break," Castiel shifts slightly, pulling away just a little, but enough for Dean to miss the more thorough closeness. It's also enough for him to look into Dean's eyes, so Dean doesn't protest, because he knows it's important.

"Okay, why?" he asks, and his voice comes out smaller than he'd intended.

"The reason I won't break, Dean, is because I have something keeping me together. I have it here, this life, validating me and giving a… a meaning to what surrounds me. And I have a constant, a point of reference that always remains here, and which is _my_ constant. A point from which I can map out this new way of existence if I ever need help. I have a family, a home, and I also have more. The reason why I won't break, Dean, is you."

Cas says it so simply, plainly, openly and sincerely, and Dean stares, unable to breathe. The blue eyes gaze into his, filled with light, peace and honest brightness, and Dean's throat clenches.

"You're my constant, Dean," Castiel moves closer, and runs a hand through his hair in a soft gesture that has reverence in it, and Dean at last manages to breathe, staring, wide-eyed, into Castiel's eyes. "With you, my new life, my Free Will, began, when I raised you from perdition. Dean, I won't break, because I am with you, for as long as you will have me. Now you are the one piecing me back together. And because it is your strength and love that has pieced me together, I know I will not break."

Dean chokes on a breath between a gasp and a sob, because he almost can't listen to this, and he doesn't know what to do, because Castiel's eyes are too sincere to run from the truth he'd just told him.

So Dean hides.

He lunges forward, ducking his head under Castiel's chin, pressing his face into his chest, hiding, but also clinging onto him, because Castiel is his salvation, too, and he too is what keeps Dean together.

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean, holding him close, and he feels bright and _safe_, and it's almost like a memory stirring deep within him somewhere, not in his mind, but in his soul. A memory of a time he can't recall, a nightmare turned into serenity, a moment when among raging chaos, he was enveloped in peace, and he _knows_, he suddenly knows that this has happened in Hell, when Castiel touched him. He doesn't remember it, but his soul does, Dean knows this clearer than ever.

And he falls asleep, listening to the steady beat of Castiel's heart. Human heart, with a new life ahead.

And it's _theirs_.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed :) The thread of Dean's soul recollecting memories from Cas rescuing him from Hell, will probably get expanded.**

**Please review, I live for those fluffy balls of goodness, and they make me ever so happy! :)**


	8. Rattle of Legos in the vent

**Sorry for the delay, like I said, exams... they kill people! I'm still having them, so I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but I'll try to find time :) Thank you so much for all your reviews, wheee! :D**

**So here's the latest installment, I hope you enjoy it! More feels and fluff, again especially at the end.**

* * *

**8. Rattle of Legos in the vent**

As a hunter, Castiel has his ups and downs.

Ups definitely comprise flawless aim when shooting, badass ease with swords and knives and blades of all kind, equally badass angel martial arts techniques (even if a lot of the moves are off his list, because he's got no mojo anymore), humongous knowledge on things supernatural that out-nerds even Sam's, and determination.

Downs most prominently include a still near-zero social compatibility, absolute inability to interrogate or gently question, ignorance about many human norms and habits, slightly slippery grip on the mechanics of the internet, and a stubbornness to prove himself helpful.

That last part is what often worries Dean most in the 'downs' department, because for one thing, Cas _is_ fucking mighty useful, and for another – the idea that he isn't, makes him take on stupid risks. Dean really has to find a way to cope with this, because he's not gonna have Cas rushing all kamikaze into a vamp nest just to prove he can 'be of use'.

All in all, Cas is pretty damn sucky at the initial stage of investigation – questioning and research, establishing what exactly they're dealing with, but once they get the supernatural identity, he's damn priceless when it comes to hunting it down.

So Dean's established some 'human education' going on around the Batcave. Basically, it comes down to him and Cas snuggling up on the sofa and watching movies, which Dean claims introduces the newly made human to some vital pop culture references and human behaviour. (Sam says he's called him on it and it's just an excuse to 'cuddle with your boyfriend', but it's not, damn it!)

And so Dean schools Cas on the classics and some interesting less-famous productions, and he's slowly amassing a DVD collection. He likes this, but will never dare say it out loud, for fear that saying it will make something take it away. Those DVDs, they're just like him getting some things because he likes them, not because they're practical. The DVDs mean he's making himself a home here, and he likes it, and desperately wants to hang onto this moment, in case it ever passes. He doesn't want it to pass. He has this need to build himself a life here, with Cas and with Sam, and the increasing stack of DVDs, too large now to pack it up in the Impala, as he did with all of his belongings all his life, is a testimony to his determination.

Now Dean grins at Cas who is already in his spot on the sofa, and pops a disc into the player, before making himself comfortable beside his angel. (The term 'his angel' is purely affectionate now, but it also has a different meaning for Dean, something he'll never tell even Sam.)

"What are we watching?" Cas asks while Dean fumbles with the cushions in search for the remote.

"A classic, man," Dean's quest ends in triumph, and he skips over some ads and logos and shit.

"That's the category into which you classify every movie you show me, Dean," Cas reminds him in his Vulcan smartass tone, but that doesn't stop him from shifting to press closer to Dean.

"Yeah, well, that's the point, dude," Dean smirks. "Anyway, I think you'll like this, it's animation."

Castiel makes a preliminarily approving sound, and Dean drapes an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, because what the hell. If you can't get cosy with your boyfriend on your own sofa, there's something very wrong with the world.

They've done _The_ _Godfather_ marathon last week, all three parts in a row, and it dragged on so late into the night that Dean's been nodding off on Cas' shoulder by the time Michael was ganked – Dean's recently favourite scene, for all new, another-Michael-related reasons. They've watched three _Star Trek_ movies (it was meant to be just the first two, but Cas wanted to know what happens to Spock. Also, he was very quiet and deep in thought about the whole Genesis plot.) and the old _Star Wars_ trilogy, and now Dean's going for something different.

Cas likes cartoons, so Dean's taking him through the Disney classics (_Snow White_ didn't go down that well – _'This is necrophilia, Dean, he thinks she's dead and he kisses her!'_), because Castiel's comments are just priceless. Just as is his engagement in the plot, wide blue eyes tracing the events on the screen with attentiveness and often emotion.

They're doing the Disney Renaissance era now, and Dean's glad, because watching _Oliver and Company_ almost killed him – the small kitten at the beginning, left in a box, unwanted by anyone, free to a home but not taken, made him think '_Cas!'_ so hard that he almost choked. Now that he thinks of it, watching _The Lion King_ might not be a good idea either, but the film is already starting.

And _of course_ Sam has to come up and join them, plopping himself on Cas' other side, and looking at the screen with a downright lyrical face that makes Dean roll his eyes. Yes, it's a fucking awesome movie, yes it makes people tear up, but no need to be so gooey about it, damn it!

The opening sequence rolls, and Castiel is impressed, because well, who isn't? Awesome piece of animation epicness, that. Dean remembers seeing it as a kid in the cinema, taking an 11 year old Sammy in secret, sneaking out when their father was out hunting.

Castiel surprises him throughout the movie though. He doesn't cry or appear particularly moved during Mufasa's death (while Dean fights a clenched throat, because he's _been there_, he's fucking been there! Sam is trying to keep it together, but Dean can hear him snuffling a little on the other end of the sofa.), but the scene where he _does_ tear up (and Dean really should have had the foresight about this!) is the ghost scene. Where Simba is flooded with the spirit of his father, having his questions answered, his path cleared.

Cas watches it motionless, tense, his eyes blown wide, mouth parted in overwhelmed breaths, and a tear slides down his cheek, falling from unblinking eyes. There's so much pain and astonishment and rapture in his gaze that Dean finds himself freezing too, and watching Cas instead of the movie. And there is regret and yearning, a wound reopened, because for a long time, for a very long time, Castiel was a son asking for a sign.

And his sign never came.

Not for the first time, Dean feels anger flood him when he thinks about god. That son of a bitch who abandoned his children and let them do shit, wreak havoc all over the world, and turn on each other. And he never, never answered any of them, not even the ones that still prayed and believed and _tried_, even when everything else told them to stop.

And what Cas got instead of a sign, of a word, of any help, is being stuck as a measly human, with the place he called 'home' ripped and broken apart. And Dean knows he can never, never offer Cas enough to match with what he used to have.

But he remembers Cas calling the Batcave 'home'. After the meeting with Nathaniel, after the offer to ascend to Heaven again, which knocked the wind out of Dean, he just turned and said _"Dean, can we please go home?_" Home, he said home! He considers this place his home now, and Dean is selfishly, thoroughly happy with that.

So now he wraps an arm around Castiel's shoulders, pulling him close, until Cas rests back against him, tucking his head under Dean's chin, and Dean secures both arms around his angel's waist, holding him close, trying to tell him he loves him and will be his home for as long as he'll have him.

And when Castiel's abdomen rises and falls in a slow, smooth sigh, he knows that Cas got the message.

* * *

The windscreen wipers work at their top speed, gliding across the wet glass, thick rain pelting down incessantly and rendering their work sadly insignificant. Visibility sucks, extending 30 feet ahead at best, and Dean watches the road carefully, ready to hit the brakes in case an animal or an obstacle suddenly jumps out.

Though somehow, he's not tense. The Impala is ploughing through the opulent streams of rain, half-dark greyness surrounding them, water pouring down the windows and drumming steadily against the roof and the windscreen. There's something cosy about driving in a warm and dry car, the heating notched mildly up, because it's a slightly unusually cool day, and he can hear a faint rattle of the Legos in the vent.

Sam is beside him, flipping through stuff on his phone, looking bored, and Dean can see one of the Enochian symbols magic-markered onto his forearm where his sleeve has rolled up. Cas is in the backseat, snuggled into his hoodie and peacefully looking out the window into the deluge they speed through.

There is almost a comfy sense of sleepiness in the car, and Dean likes it. For some reason he can't explain, it's relaxing, even if they're on their way to a hunt.

What's the most relaxing, probably, is the sound of the wipers. They glide across the flooded glass, producing a characteristic, dull, gummy sound, rhythmic and pacifying. Dean remembers falling asleep in the backseat rested against Sammy many times, back when they were kids, lulled by this sound, accompanied by the rattle of Legos.

He likes moments like this one, which aren't particularly lazy or idle – not at all, even – and yet they're sort of outside of the time stream.

A loud sigh and a click of locked phone on his right, inform him that Sam doesn't share those feelings. (Well, he can stuff it – Cas is clearly with Dean on this one, because the dude is really peaceful in the back, all cosy and snuggled up. And he looks really, _really_ good in that hoodie.)

"The map and the weather reports say we've still got four hours of ride at least," Sam complains in a sore tone of a man who's spent a day trekking through a desert.

"Gonna have to check into a motel then," Dean replies with a disregarding sniff.

Sam sighs again, leaning his head back against the backrest and drums his fingers against his thigh. He never was good with long rides without a good view to check out. Poor nerd doesn't even have any research to romance with – the case is fairly simple, a standard Utopiec luring people to drown in a swamp, and they've done all the research for it already.

"Hey, Cas?" Sam speaks, turning his head a little to look back, and Castiel's large blue eyes drift over to him attentively.

"Yes, Sam?"

"Wanna play something?"

Dean bites back a groan. His two nerds somehow amassed themselves a set of 'travel games' they sometimes play on long, boring drives, and Dean not always can take some of them. Okay, some are pretty fun to observe, but then there are some that are just obnoxious.

"Alright," Cas replies, without much fire, but then again there rarely is fire when people decide to play nerd games out of boredom.

"No word chains!" Dean restricts instantly, because after a couple of rounds, he gets a rash at the thought of the game. It really isn't fun to sit next to Sam and Cas coming up with a word that begins with the letter with which the previous word had ended. And then they inevitably start throwing around big words that Dean doesn't really know, which makes him feel like the idiot meat in a brainiac sandwich.

"Okay…" Sam says slowly, peering at him with something like concern, before turning to Cas again. "Battleships?"

"It's suitable."

Sam grins and ducks to feel around the car floor, bending his ridiculously long body in half, till he finally locates what he's been looking for, retrieving two plastic boxes held together in a clever lock. Yes, god help him, Sam actually got one of those travel edition Battleships sets, where each of the two boxes opens like a laptop, ships are stuck onto small protruding circles (like Legos) with holes, into which then go small plastic pins – white for missed shot, red for shot on target. When Sam got it for himself and Cas after countless pieces of paper with pencil scribbles, he was all giddy, like a kid on Christmas Eve, and frankly it freaks Dean out. Seriously – there should be limits even to Sam's geekiness.

Still, it's one of the fun games to watch, so Dean doesn't bitch when Sam and Cas set up.

Fifteen minutes later, the battle is in full swing, Sam and Cas each holding their respective boxes, and also sporting their best plotting faces. Cas' is a little smugger though, because he's winning, which, as usually in those cases, notches up Dean's personal entertainment.

"B5."

"Missed."

"Cas, are you sure you're not cheating?"

"How could I possibly cheat, Sam? Besides, would it not defeat the purpose of the game?"

"I dunno, man, you spend a lot of time with Dean, something nasty's gotta rub off on you…"

"Hey!"

"I assure you, I'm not cheating. A2."

"Another one! This is incredible! Are you sure you're not still a little bit psychic or anything?"

Dean can actually _hear_ Cas bristling.

"I am not. G6."

"…Damn you!"

Dean cackles, warranting himself a bitchface from Sam.

* * *

An Utopiec is a creature usually born out of a soul of a drowned person, but cannot be killed by a simple salt-and-burn. What works, is a rosary. They're terrified of rosaries, so the way to gank an Utopiec, is to wrap a rosary around its neck.

Which is why Dean, Sam and Cas find themselves treading knee-deep through a local swamp, each with a rosary around his neck (for protection, since this stuff works like an anti-mosquito spray for those suckers), and with another one in hand, ready for action. Cas additionally wields his angel blade, which can kill anything, and he claims it could actually kill an Utopiec. Dean has his concerns, but he keeps them to himself, and moves at the head of their small group.

The sun had long since set, and while it's not raining anymore, the thick clouds block out any light that could still be coming from the sky, drowning the forest in darkness. The water is cold, and soon it reaches well past Dean's waist, which is where he slows the hunting party down a bit. They can't afford to be too limited in their movements.

Actually, it goes a lot better than Dean's been expecting. Cas' angel blade indeed turns out harmful for the Utopiec, and Dean has the opportunity to pull through a near-cardiac arrest when the creature suddenly leaps out of the perfectly still water, lunging at him, which is when Cas steps in and slashes through the creature's arm, sending it howling and plunging back into the water. The wound slows it down enough for Dean and Sam to wrap a rosary around its neck during the next attack, and the Utopiec dissolves into green-ish slime.

And that, in turn, is why Dean is grinning. Because it means that as soon as they arrive to the nearest motel, he will get to pull Cas into the shower, and very, _very_ thoroughly scrub clean every single inch of him.

They arrive quickly, with just a short stop when Sam finds a leech on his calf, and Dean – who rarely is grossed out, but _daaaamn, this is nasty!_ – has to hold the lighter to the worm in order to detach it from the flesh.

"We're getting separate rooms," says Sam as they walk through the door and slosh their way over to the receptionist, the girl staring at them with wide eyes. Part of it is probably caused by the large leaf of some water plant or other crap that Sam's got decoratively tangled in his princess locks.

"Damn straight we are," Dean agrees.

"Yeah, hi, we'd like two rooms, and can you please make sure the bathrooms don't share a wall?" Sam requests.

Cas tilts his head in puzzlement, but Dean knows all too well what the little fucker he's got for a brother had meant, and he glares.

"Bitch," he hisses, while the spooked receptionist performs the standard machinations with keys and papers.

"Hey, I already heard enough stuff I'll never be able to _unhear_, thanks," Sam replies as he scrawls an illegible alias signature on the papers, and Dean glowers more.

"Dean, I think-" Cas starts, and Dean knows, he just _knows_ that whatever his treasured angel wants to say, will be dismal, despite best intentions, so he cuts in quickly, scooping one of the keys off the desk.

"Shut up, Cas. C'mon," he grabs him by the wet hoodie sleeve, and promptly drags him down the corridor.

Once at last in the room, Dean tosses the key onto the bed and yanks off his cold, wet jacket, dropping it onto the floor with a wet flop. Swamp water, mud and Utopiec slime – their washing machine is going to be happy.

He looks up into Castiel's face, and meets with a slightly puzzled expression, a small head tilt completing the look that Cas should fucking patent. Dean chuckles, reaching up, and cups Cas' face in his hands, running his thumbs over the smooth cheekbones, brushing away a smudge of dirt.

"Dean, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Cas. I just don't like being wet and cold and pissed off by Sammy's shit."

"Your affectionately bickering dynamic with your brother is intriguingly explosive in its bipolarity between seriousness and jest."

"Yeah, whatever you say, huggie-bear. Now come on," Dean pats Cas on the ass, nodding towards the bathroom. "We both could use a shower."

Castiel eagerly follows.

Becoming physically human faced him with a seemingly never-ending plethora of new experiences, requirements and procedures, and while he has reached the stage of curiosity, initially it was a true ordeal. By now, he is well accustomed to many of those basic activities, and he appreciates Dean's (and Sam's, naturally) help more than he could possibly express (a frustrating hindrance in communication that has not dissipated despite his transition into the human species – perhaps because the change is physical).

There are things that Castiel likes and dislikes about being human. For a long period, he abhorred sleep, which always brought a new, terrifying experience of nightmares – a sickening dimension spun within his own mind with startling vividness and nauseating occurrences. Apart from the horrors of the often mangled, illogical plots playing out in his mind, what terrifies him about the nightmares the most is the very mechanics of it. His brain taking upon an activity without his consent. It feels all too familiar and similar to his enslavement by Naomi, and earlier to his madness caused by healing Sam. For long weeks, sleep was an incapacitating problem, but eventually he had found he sleeps better in Dean's presence. Presently, he feels content to drift off in his beloved's arms, and wake up in his hold as well, and nightmares come rarer. As do Dean's, he's noticed, ever since they'd regularly started sharing the bed, and he's content with that.

By contrast, showers are on the exact opposite end of the scale for Castiel. He enjoys them thoroughly, and has ever since his first one (introduced by a flushed, fidgety Dean who vacated the bathroom speedily as soon as he'd demonstrated to Castiel the workings of shower knobs and such). He enjoys the enveloping warmth, the thickening humidity of steamed air, and the cathartic, soothing feeling of water pouring down his body, hushing him and washing away the dirt, either the physical one or the imagined, emotional unease.

His favourite showers, naturally, are the ones taken with Dean. They don't always have sex during them, in fact, not often at all, because both of them enjoy the laziness, heat and the slow, pleasant process of washing each other in between long, idle kisses, water pouring down their bodies.

And so Castiel stands in the cabin, watching the smile on Dean's face as his beloved massages shampoo into his hair. Dean plays with Castiel's foamy strands, shaping silly horns and bangs and mohawks, and Castiel stands patiently, allowing him his indulgences, enjoying the grin on Dean's face. Despite the way the water has darkened his hair, the grin brightens his face, the way a beam of sunshine would, the pattern of a myriad of freckles shifting and rearranging to accommodate the grin, and Castiel watches, peace and light filling his… his soul, he reckons. As a human, he now has a soul.

And it's tugging, trying to merge into Dean's.

When he had Grace, he sometimes – more often than his relationship with Dean should have allowed, he thinks – would hold Dean's soul in its embrace. He would envelop Dean's soul, his essence, curling and moulding his Grace around it protectively, affectionately, and soak in the beautiful, sheer light. Dean's righteousness and goodness, the brightness of his soul, and Castiel would hold it in the embrace of his Grace, gently, reverently and strongly, as he did in Hell, but later also lovingly, needy.

"There, you're ready for your punk rock photoshoot."

It was one of the most severe aches of losing his Grace – the sudden coldness, withdrawal, inability to cradle Dean's soul, for what he then realised largely became selfish need of comfort and the only form of affection he would have with Dean. A hidden one.

"Cas?"

It had been a void, hollow, cold hurt, one that sent him into moments of slowness, when deprived of this comforting but also protective sensation, he would feel at a loss, reaching for a soothing act of love that wasn't there.

Until, finally, he discovered that holding Dean in his arms, in the embrace of a physical body to which he is now fully and tightly connected, within which he strictly exists, is an even better, more fulfilling emotion. It initially came as a surprise, how the sensation of Dean's body filling the embrace of his arms, pressing against his own, directly and purely corresponded with a feeling of warmth and love in his soul. Just as it did when he used to hold Dean's soul within his Grace, only… only more clearly, as though a tangible fog has been lifted, and only _now_ he can truly hold Dean.

And it's an astonishing sensation.

"Hey, Cas, you OK?" a worried tone tinges Dean's voice, and a warm, wet, soapy hand gently brushes against Castiel's cheek.

The touch, a physical sensation, is in some inexplicable way so tightly joined with his soul, he feels it singing out towards Dean's, basking in its offered beauty. So he follows the tug, smiling slightly, and gently cupping Dean's cheeks in his hands for a moment, taking in his beautiful face, the shining green eyes, the small rivulets of water streaking in between the freckles, as if connecting dots. And Dean lets him take his time, and in the green, familiar and loved eyes Castiel sees that Dean may not understand what Castiel is doing, but understands that it is important to him.

So Castiel slides his hands down Dean's chest and wraps his arms around his waist, leaning in until they're pressed close together, and he stays so for a long moment, closing his eyes, simply _holding_ Dean. Holding him not as he did when he raised him from Hell, not as he did with his Grace, but as he does now, with his soul brimming with love, and a new, but also familiar feeling of Dean in his embrace. It does feel similar to encircling him protectively with his Grace, but somehow also feels _more_. More distinct, more direct, more close.

Dean's arms wrap around Castiel in return, his body relaxing, and Castiel sighs, slow and deep, pressing his cheek against the side of Dean's head, and simply takes in the sensations.

The warm, almost hot water continues to pour down their bodies, and Castiel wants to tell Dean he loves him, but he realises right now the words aren't a necessity, because the message is already lingering in the dimension of sheer emotions. And somehow, even though he cannot filter through Dean's mind anymore, he knows that Dean is aware he is thinking of how much he loves him.

And so he holds Dean on, keeping him in his arms.

* * *

**I hope you all enjoyed :) I especially liked writing the ending :)**

**Next chapter - Cas remembers and deals with his Dean-killing training that Naomi put him through.**

**Please review, I squeal and cuddle those fluffy balls of goodness!**


	9. Even if there are thousands alike

**FINALLY looks like I'm done with exams... just 2 more things, but nothing too huge, should be fine... looks like I survived the onslaught!**

**So anyway, here's the new chapter, wherein Cas remembers and deals with his Dean-killing training. There's angst and feels, but worry not, I'm a huge fluff sucker, so naturally some of it worked its way in there, too :D**

**Also - I very definitely feel Dean would be the kind of person to get very caught up in an animal documentary and freak out over baby seal vs bear suspense XD**

**Please review! :D**

* * *

**9. Even if there are thousands alike**

"Oh, no. Oh, no. This is not gonna end well. Oh, come on, man this is why I hate documentaries!"

Dean cringes, clutching his beer bottle for moral support, and only half-hears an exasperated huff Sam breaths by his side. On the TV screen, the polar bear advances further, towards a dumbly oblivious baby seal laid out on the ice, near a hole.

"C'mon, you dumb roll of fluff, look behind ya!" Dean yells, waving his free arm.

On his other side, Castiel eyes him with a concerned look of a mental ward's nurse whose patient has just relapsed. The bear sniffs the air, and follows closer to the white, fluffy baby seal.

"Oh, hell!" Dean whines and takes a hearty swig from his bottle.

"Dude, relax," scoffs Sam, the heartless sicko whose idea it was to watch this shit in the first place.

The bear creeps further, and the baby seal just blinks with those large black eyes, and twitches the whiskers. The narrator explains that the bear has positioned itself downwind, so the seal can't smell it. Well, that's just freakin' perfect!

"C'moooon, get in the hole!" Dean growls at the seal.

"Dean, you do realise this footage has been shot in the past, and that no matter what you do or say, you have no influence on the seal pup's fate?" Castiel speaks beside him, and going by his voice, he's trying to be gentle, but that just ain't his forte.

Dean rolls his eyes, but slings an arm around Cas' shoulders nonetheless. The seal looks around, but _of course_ it doesn't see the bear which keeps on approaching, really close now…

"Dude, this is sick," Dean grumbles, cringing again as the clueless baby seal just _looks into the fucking water_, but doesn't get in.

"Dean, statistically one of every ten seal pups does not survive such an attack, why do you attach yourself so emotionally to this particular specimen?"

"Oh, hell, Cas, I'm not attaching emot- _get in_! Yes! Ha! Suck it, bear!"

"Castiel, my condolences, it can't be easy for you to date a five year old."

"Shut it, bitch!"

"Dean and I aren't _dating_, we are bonded."

Sam raises his hands in a defensive gesture, backing away, and despite Cas touching the whole bond issue, Dean feels very smug at the moment. He pulls Cas closer, getting comfortable, and takes a celebratory swig of his beer, watching the baby seal swim through the water and reunite with its hunting mother.

In his half-embrace, Cas, eyes thoughtfully focused on the screen, slowly scoops some honey from a jar with a teaspoon, twisting the stretching ribbon of thick sweetness around the spoon, and puts it in his mouth, getting to work on slowly sucking on it, attention completely engrossed by the documentary playing out on the screen.

Eating honey straight from a jar is one of Castiel's hardcore special skills. Dean likes his taste of honey every now and then, but one teaspoon and he's full of the stuff, his mouth too sweet and his stomach oddly twisting at the thought of more, which, as far as he knows, is a standard human reaction.

Well, not for the new member of human club. Cas can actually eat half a jar and not get sick, slowly and absentmindedly scooping spoon after spoon while he's reading or watching TV. Dean thinks it might be because of his bee thing. Or maybe also a sweet tooth that runs in the family, Dean thinks as he briefly remembers Gabriel. Cas' favourite honey is a semi-liquid, clear, pale acacia honey, and they keep stocking up on the shit, while Cas keeps clearing it out.

Out the corner of his eye, Dean sees another teaspoon of honey make its way into Cas' mouth, and he winces. How the hell does he do it?

Apparently, Sam is having a similar train of thoughts as he peers at Castiel hesitantly.

"Cas, don't you think you've had enough?" he asks dubiously.

Castiel glances at Sam, and then peers into the honey jar, tipping his head pensively, like he's looking for some measuring device there.

"I don't think so."

"You know, honey is healthy, but it's not good to overdo anything…"

"Let him do his thing, Sammy, when he throws up, he's gonna know his limits."

"Thank you, Dean."

"Yeah, I wasn't really in your corner there, Cas."

"Nevertheless, your judgment is sound, and I appreciate that," Castiel replies, and sticks another spoonful of honey into his mouth. Sometimes Dean thinks he's really screwing with the two of them.

The documentary ends fairly soon, with no seals eaten, and Sam makes a small show of stretching, yawning and saying he's gonna go read in his room. Dean narrows his eyes, because it's all too casual, and Sam has been like that for the past weeks – too casual, too calm, too relaxed every now and then, those small moments in a day. That means he's up to something, and he's not telling Dean about it. It stings, because yeah, this is always where they get tripped up – when they plan behind each other's back, all in good faith and with best intentions. But for once, Dean decides to sit on his hands and wait, let things play out before he steps in, because another place where they always get tripped up, is the uninformed one pressuring, steamrolling the planning one, till tempers fry and shit generally short-circuits.

Huh. Looks like Cas' patience is rubbing off on him a little.

Cas turns to look at him, half-questioning, and Dean suppresses a shiver. He swears, sometimes it's like Cas can still read his mind, can still hear his thoughts about him, and react to them.

But then again, Dean said no mind reading, and Cas did no mind reading. So maybe it's not that he heard his thoughts, and not that he somehow, freakishly, hears them now, too. Maybe it's just because Cas really, _really_ knows him – rebuilt him atom by atom, saw his soul in Hell and all that. But also _knows him_, as in, well, knows him. Five and a half years knows him, seen him through good and bad (sadly enough, mostly bad) and just learned him.

It's a bit shitty to think that Cas knows Dean better than Dean knows Cas, probably. But then again, in his defence, Cas is like billions of years old, it takes more time to know someone with a mileage like this, dammit!

Castiel doesn't say anything now, he just watches Dean for a moment, with those all-encompassing, endless eyes, and there is no distance despite the infinity of his gaze. And then he just leans in, and Dean lets his eyes flutter closed as he waits a prolonged second, before Cas' lips touch his, in a soft brush at first, then moulding more tightly and thoroughly into his own. His lips are soft and lush and supple, and Dean loves kissing him and being kissed by him. Shifting closer into Cas, he traces his lower lip with his tongue, and Cas lets him in, softly, and Dean explores his honey-flavoured mouth in a languid kiss.

And for a moment, he doesn't worry about anything anymore.

* * *

Sam was being shifty when he'd asked Dean for the Impala keys, saying he wants to get out and get something, and Dean suspects a hairspray, which he's certain Sam's been hooked on for ages. Still, it means he and Cas get the bunker all to themselves and can do shit like cook naked, so he's all up for it.

Not that they ever _have_ cooked naked, it's just the idea that they can do whatever they want, with Sam gone for one or two hours.

It goes a bit different though.

They make themselves a late breakfast – chocolate chip pancakes, because what the heck, and they top it up with orange juice and a few pieces of a fresh watermelon, and take their time with all the food as they sit at the table, not really saying anything.

Dean's always felt comfortable in silence shared with Castiel. It was never awkward, partly because Cas has no idea of social standards and the phenomenon of awkward silence, but mostly because it just _isn't_ awkward between them. And the longer they knew each other, the more comfortable it would become.

So now they just sit and eat, both perfectly content with the present moment, not needing to make any small-talk or anything. When they finish, Cas wants to wash the dishes, but Dean dissuades him, saying Sam will do it when he gets back. He may have oversold Sam's love for dishwashing, but it gets Cas off the guilt, so it's all good in Dean's book.

"So, I was thinking, want to do some sparring later on?" Dean asks as they leave the kitchen.

"That would be agreeable," Cas nods, and Dean lets a wide, sly grin to spread on his face.

Sparring with Cas is awesome, because for one thing he has a really cool technique to go against, but first and foremost because it always rushes the adrenaline. The exercise, fight for dominance and constant contact and strain end up making them wildly hot for each other by the end of a session, which almost always results in a beyond-awesome sex.

"Before that, I was wondering if you'd like to watch some television with me," Cas offers, homing in on the sofa, and Dean follows with a small smile – Cas' attachment to TV is a frankly adorable trademark. Occasionally worrisome, but adorable.

"Sure."

"There is supposed to be a documentary on Amur leopards that I think could be interesting."

Dean's smile somewhat diminishes.

"Ah… not really in a mood for one of those, Cas…"

A small, puzzled frown and a tilt of head, the familiar gaze of blue eyes. Dean wants to reach out and run his hand over Cas' cheek, but the tug of tenderness is tempered by the documentary issue.

"Do you not like this species?" the patented cluelessness is another endearing feature, and Dean just has to chuckle a little – partially because Cas is being, well, Cas, but also partially because he wants to cover his unease.

"Nah, not that. I'm just… well, I'm not a documentary kinda guy, ya know?"

Cas scrutinises him for a moment more, head tipped, brain working, trying to figure out Dean's problem. Dean doesn't really want to be having this discussion, but he knows it's coming, and he feels an unpleasant taste rise in his mouth – he almost thinks it's the foretaste of some shitty stuff he's inevitably going to say, and he clenches his teeth, trying to get a grip on himself.

"Is this… about the seal?" Castiel asks slowly, carefully, and Dean huffs out an exasperated breath.

"Dude, no… I mean, yeah, but no. I just- look, I just don't like that stuff, the suspense and the way they sometimes show those animals get ganked, especially the kid ones, you know," he shrugs.

"It's nature, Dean, I don't see why would that affect you."

"It doesn't affect me!" Dean snaps with a growl, and tries to reel in. "Look, man, I just don't like it. I mean, some bits are nice to look at, sure, but yeah, it's nature, and since you know this stuff happens all the time anyway, no need to also watch it. Ten minutes of watching a baby seal or leopard or whatever be happy on screen, and then it gets ganked. No, thanks."

He hopes this is explanation enough, but of course it isn't, and Cas is thinking, milling it over in his mind, sorting through the data, and inevitably doesn't get it.

"So by extent, you _do_ attach yourself emotionally to the fate of one specimen from among thousands identical, simply because you're watching it on TV," he states, and Dean throws his hands up in the air.

"Dammit, Cas, okay, I do, a little bit! It's one of those weird human things, y'know. You really don't get it? So what if there are a couple thousand identical seals, you're watching _this one_, and you get to see it do shit and then be killed, and it doesn't matter that hundreds of others end up the same way, because even if they're all identical, you're watching _this one_! So you don't wanna see it get killed, even if there were thousands of others before it!"

He hadn't meant to start yelling, but he did. And Cas flinches back a little bit, eyes suddenly going wide, like Dean's said something absolutely revelatory and heartbreaking at the same time. Dean's breath suddenly slows and stops altogether as he watches the expression shape the features of Castiel's face.

And Cas just stares, wide-eyed and pained, like Dean had just kicked his sick puppy when Cas asked him to help it. He stares, eyebrows rising, mouth closing, and his eyes are wide, the blue brimming with panic, and Dean's throat clenches sickly when suddenly Cas' gaze grows absent, looking at him but not quite _seeing_ him anymore.

"Cas…?" he makes a small, nondescript move, and his breath hitches in his throat when Castiel takes a step back.

"No…" he mumbles unclearly, slowly shaking his head, his eyes never leaving Dean's, but never connecting with them either.

Dean feels a sickening, cold clench grip and twist his gut. He doesn't know what's going on, he doesn't know what did he say, but he'd obviously triggered something in Castiel's mind, and he feels almost physically ill as panic rises in his own system. He has no clue what is happening, and it serves as a catalyst for his panic, sending an overwhelming sure of it through his brain.

He swallows and forces his mouth and vocal cords into action.

"Cas? Cas, what's wrong?"

Castiel slowly shakes his head again, taking another few steps backwards, away from Dean, and Dean feels another lurch of panic as the unknown problem thickens around them, _between them_.

"No… No…"

"Cas? Cas, what is it, what did I say?" Dean tries to keep his voice steady, devoid of tremors, as he takes a slow step forward, and it takes all of his willpower to do what he does, when all he wants is to launch at Cas, grip him tight and make sure he doesn't slip away. "Cas, tell me, what did I say?"

"No… I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry…"

Cas looks like he's about to throw up, and Dean's panic screams throughout his system in a piercing, cold flash, his teeth clenching.

"C-Cas?"

"I'm sorry, no, I can't be with you now," Cas keeps mumbling as he retreats, and then starts walking away fast, Dean following him on a powerful impulse, because he feels like he's going to have some vital organ ripped out of his body if he lets Cas get too far away from him. It terrifies him to the core that he needs Castiel so much, but the need manages to overpower even the fear it causes.

"Cas, Cas! Cas, tell me, damn it, what's wrong?" Dean yells as he follows him down the corridor. "Cas! Tell me what the hell did I say?!"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Dean's stomach twists and turns as he hears the mumbled chant of apology tumbling only half-consciously from Castiel's mouth, and he speeds up, trying to grab him by the arm, but Cas opens a door, the door to the room he used to occupy, and gets in, closing it before Dean can follow him inside.

The door doesn't slam, but the sound of the latch closing freezes Dean's feet into the floor. And the sound of a lock clicking makes him stop breathing.

* * *

Sam guiltily thinks they really should visit Kevin soon – the kid's been acting a little weird lately whenever they talk on the phone, and Sam thinks he might be overdosing on the Prophet-in-the-desert thing.

Overall though, his day's been good so far – he picked up a couple of new movies and some boxes of Lucky Charms, because Dean and Cas clear those out like crazy, and Sam's tired of going for an evening snack and having to shake crumbs out of an empty box.

He walks down the stairs, calling out into the silent bunker, knowing that at least one of his gluttonous roommates must be around.

"I got you three boxes of Lucky Cha-"

He cuts off abruptly, when he sees Dean seated at the kitchen table – all of his brother's silhouette screams of pain, apathy and inability to cope. There's a bottle in his hand, his hair is wild, his shoulders are slumped but also tense… and there's no Cas in sight. Just thick, taut silence hanging like a stew.

With a sigh, Sam drops the boxes onto the table, and gives Dean a look which his older brother pointedly avoids.

"Alright, what did you do to him?" Sam demands.

That works. Dean instantly bristles, a jolt of outraged energy passing through his body as he shifts and sends Sam a menacing glare.

"The hell d'you assume _I_ did something to _him_?" he growls, and reinforces the brilliant argument with a swig from the bottle.

Sam sighs again, sinking into the chair on the opposite side of the table, and pins Dean down with a pointed gaze. Dean tries to hold it, but his green eyes keep slipping sideways every now and then. Sam shakes his head.

"Okay, look – you guys have two patterns going on for like forever," he informs his dense brother. "One is you asking Cas to do something, Cas refuses, you pressure, Cas gets angry and leaves, and then he eventually comes around and does what you asked him, but by that time it's too late for you to appreciate it, and also the situation has changed and stuff complicates. The other pattern is you saying something that hits him real bad, even if you not always intended it to be _that bad_, he doesn't tell you why it hits him, you keep coming on and bulldozing until he just snaps and flies off, and you both take some time out and then act like that shit never happened. So since Cas is nowhere around, and you're sitting here, trying to deep-throat a Jack Daniels, I think we're dealing with Number Two."

Dean lifts his gaze from the bottle and sends him a heavy, angry glare, but Sam doesn't budge, sitting stoically opposite from Dean.

"So? What did you say to him?"

At that, something seems to snap inside of Dean, and his head drops into his hands, face hiding in his palms, and he gives a slow, slightly unsteady breath. Sam quirks an eyebrow, seeing that whatever has happened, it's really not pretty.

"I don't know, man…" Dean mumbles into his palms as he rubs them slowly over his face, head still hanging down. "I don't know, and that's the shit, Sammy, I _don't know_, cause he _won't tell me_. He… locked himself in… in the room he used to… and Sammy, I just don't know, I… Jesus…" he sighs, hands leaving his face, and his head drops, forehead hitting against the tabletop in defeat.

Sam hesitates, taking a slow breath of his own. He doesn't really know what to say, but he knows he has to. With Dean and Castiel being so handicapped in communication, he needs to help them. He wants to help them, but he's not sure how, because Dean and Cas have something unique, a relationship and way of being together that sometimes puzzles him – in the past they often would resolve issues between them in their own, strange ways, in ways that Sam wouldn't use, but which happen to be the best for those two. So Sam's not sure how he can help them.

But he loves them both, so he's gonna try. Or rather, he's gonna give Dean a push – and then that thing between his brother and the fallen angel will happen again. That thing where they always, _always_, in the end, manage to work through an issue.

"Look, Dean… I think you should ask him."

Dean looks up, a look of sheer, angry contempt burning into Sam's eyes unpleasantly.

"Gee, thanks, Dr Phil, I didn't think of that!"

"Cut it out, Dean, I mean ask him again!" Sam snaps back. "Now that you both cooled off! And what happened anyway?" he asks in a softer tone.

Dean groans again.

"I… I dunno, man… he asked me if I wanna watch a documentary, I said no, he asked why, I told him I don't like seeing kid animals getting eaten even if there are thousands others just like them, and then he got all weird…" Dean swallows loudly, with visible effort that hurts Sam to watch. He doesn't want to see his brother so wrecked, not when he's been so happy over the past months.

"Weird, how?"

"I… he just… he started saying that he's sorry, so sorry, and he bailed."

Sam frowns, turning the words over in his head. He knows Dean isn't probably saying everything Cas has said, and he also knows there is no way of prying that out of him, so he sighs slowly, peering attentively at Dean. His brother is staring blankly, absently at the bottle before him, and Sam feels a flicker of relief when he doesn't appear interested in its contents anymore.

Dean's been drinking so much less since he and Castiel 'got together' (Sam doesn't really like the phrase, because what his brother and best friend have is much more, but he can't find anything else that wouldn't be cheesy or too poetic). He's been calmer, more composed, and filled with some inner peace, or at least as much of it as Dean could probably ever get. He still drinks quite a lot, but doesn't hit the heavy stuff as often and hard as he used to, and his entire attitude about drinking has shifted somewhat – more to the recreation than refuge, and Sam is eternally grateful for that.

Because Dean deserves much, much more than he's gotten in his life, and for all that he's done for everyone else – for him, for Castiel, for other hunters, for complete strangers – he deserves a reward. Only there isn't really such a thing. But it seems that Dean's found something good and rewarding in this life anyway – Castiel. Again, not the best term, 'reward', because Cas isn't some prize, but Sam thinks of it in terms of those two being each other's well-deserved and well-earned happiness. Granted, they're also each other's insecurity (because both are stupid enough to keep thinking one doesn't deserve the other), but the strength of the love they have is greater, as unbelievably cheesy as that sounds.

And Sam's happy – really, really happy to see Dean have this. This thing with Castiel, this love. The way it lifts a shadow from his eyes. Because he thinks this is exactly what Dean deserves – this bond, this unbelievable connection and intimacy of natures that he has with Castiel, and which Sam, uninvited, sometimes glimpses when he looks over his shoulder as he leaves a room, and which he can't quite wrap his head around sometimes.

So seeing Dean so worn and worried over Castiel and over whatever cracks he fears are appearing between them – well, it makes Sam's heart clench with compassion and need to help. Dean can go ahead and mock him all he wants about being a softie, but hell, he wants to help the ones he loves.

"Dean?" he asks gently, and his brother's eyes travel up from the bottle, meeting his own. Sam gives the smallest of smiles. "Go and talk to him, OK? I'm gonna go, get you guys some space. Need to go out anyway."

"Dude, you just got back," Dean frowns with a small scoff.

"I remember I need to get something else. Honest," he says. "Go. Talk to your boyfriend," he can't resist a smirk, knowing that a small pinch of teasing will play right into Dean's comfort zone – mockery and sarcasm are his brother's coping mechanism, after all.

"Just go, you bitch," Dean grouses, but there's the barest hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, and it transforms the expression of his eyes unbelievably.

"I'm going. And if you guys eat more than the three boxes of Lucky Charms I got you, I'm gonna kick your asses – the fourth box is mine."

"I'd like to see you try," Dean smirks cockily, and Sam leaves, confident that his brother is going to take care of himself now.

He climbs the stairs and leaves, hands in jacket pockets. One hand is fiddling with the Impala keys, while the other glides over his phone's shape. He bites on his lip, looking at the car, and he closes his hand around the phone, pulling it out of the pocket.

Scrolling down the contacts, he slowly walks away, wandering aimlessly around the vicinity, as he hits dial and waits for the connection to come through, the steady beeping of the pending call ringing in his ear. At last, there is a click, and Sam fights the premonition of a bad idea prompting him to quickly disconnect.

"…Sam? Is that you?"

"Yeah… Hi, Crowley. I, uh… I got something to ask you. Have a minute?"

"Of course, Sam. It's the least I can do."

"Well, good. Cause – it'll be more than a minute."

* * *

Outside the door, Dean takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and he fucking hates himself for the shaky inhale and exhale, for the erratic heartbeat, for the sickening grip in his stomach. Because – what the hell?! He's freaking out like it's the end of the friggin world, and all that's really happened, is that Cas cracked a little bit for a moment. Not something he and Sam hadn't experienced themselves, damn it!

So he takes another breath, and freaking knocks on the door, no matter how weird it feels, and trying not to think about how sick it makes him that Cas has holed himself up in there, in what used to be his old room, because he thought he considers their shared room to be his home… But no, Dean's not thinking about that, not now. He needs to be clam to deal with this shit.

"Cas?" he asks, moving his face closer to the door. "Cas, you there?"

"Yes," Cas' gravelly voice is muffled by the plank of wood separating them, but despite the mild tension in it, it's a relief after the few moments of silence. Then, after another beat of quiet, he speaks again. "…Come in."

Swallowing down a hitch in his throat, Dean presses on the doorknob and pushes the door, swinging it open slowly.

There isn't much light in the room, just the lamp on the nightstand by the bed on which Cas is sitting. The room is virtually empty, Spartan clear, and it isn't much different from when Cas used to occupy it – he had just a few belongings, and they all were kept in a state of surgical neatness, not taking up almost any space. Dean much more likes to see Castiel's things in their shared bedroom – mixed with his own messy stuff, creating a nice, warm, homely feeling.

"Cas?" he asks now, taking a few steps away from the door and towards the bed, tentative, because he's not sure how close Cas wants him, and he's really, really, _desperately_ hoping he's not gonna screw this up now…

"Dean," Castiel is looking at him, his blue eyes even larger and more prominent and inescapable in the dim, insufficient light. He's sitting on the bed, slightly curled in on himself, but nor fragile nor broken, which sweeps a wave of violent relief across Dean.

"You, uh… you OK?" he asks, taking another tentative step closer. Dammit, dammit, dammit, he's just not good at dealing with this kinda crap!

"I'm… fine," Castiel replies with slight, sombre hesitation in his voice as his gaze flicks briefly down with a frown. "I apologise for my behaviour, Dean," he sighs, heavy and weary. "I know it must have been upsetting."

"Yeah… wanna tell me what that little meltdown was about?" Dean asks softly, wishing for a touch, wishing to reach out and touch Cas in some way, any way. Bur he doesn't, he's not sure if he can, because Cas isn't giving him any inviting signals, and Dean is so terrified of screwing up this delicate, precarious moment, that he practically freezes up on his spot just three-four feet away from the bed.

Cas looks up, biting on his lower lip briefly, eyes worried, shaped into that pained expression by a concerned frown of his eyebrows. It's that other stare, the one that Dean also is familiar with, but which doesn't fill him with any sort of reassurance. It's the stare that Cas would always give him just before announcing that another heavenly shit was about to hit the fan and splatter all over him and Sam, just before asking him, on behalf of Heaven, to do something horrible, which he so, so regrets, and feels so, so sorry for Dean.

Dean swallows, but keeps the eye contact, squaring his shoulders back as he tries to prepare for whatever it is Cas will say, like he's expecting a physical assault. Because bad news does feel like one fist hitting the stomach and the other squeezing his throat.

"Dean…" Castiel's voice is soft, timid, sorrowful, not at all rough and unwavering like it was whenever, in the past, he would make demands of Dean. Now it's a half-whisper, soft like a brush of velvet in the night, and Dean feels his own mouth fall open slightly, a withheld breath slowly escaping. "Dean…" this time, it's pleading, longing, and Cas reaches out both arms to Dean in a gesture that has become familiar over the recent months.

And this is what Dean's been waiting for, been _needing_ – he moves instantly, sitting beside Cas, pressing into his side, their thighs warming each other, and he keeps one hand on Cas' shoulder, while with the other he reaches to cup his cheek, running a tender thumb over the cheekbone, searching the blue eyes with his own.

"Hey… hey, I'm here," he murmurs, not quite knowing what to say, but somehow, oddly, feeling for once that he's saying the right things. "What is it, Cas? Talk to me," he whispers softly, imploringly.

Castiel looks into Dean's eyes, and slowly, solemnly, nods.

And so, in the almost-darkness of the cold, empty room, Castiel slowly, in a quiet voice, eyes slipping away from his love's, tells Dean the story of the worst memory he's stored in his entire, long existence.

He tells Dean of Naomi's persisting work to rectify whatever 'flaws' she's considered his mind to have, and her quest to train him into cold mercilessness with which he was meant to kill Dean on her bidding.

Castiel finds that he cannot look into Dean's eyes as he slowly but steadily recounts his training. He knows he should, he knows this is the least Dean deserves, this effort from him, but he cannot, and so he does not, looking away. His mouth feels strange – dry and acidic, but also numb, as he tells about the monotonous, repeated, looped action of killing the hundreds and thousands of Dean's perfect copies, a mechanical, emotionless sequence of progressive, repetitive movements.

Dean's hand slips away from his cheek midway the tale, and it awakens a hollow, cold sensation in the pit of his stomach, while simultaneously filling his chest with an unbearable, outwardly expanding pressure that feels unbearably close to explosion, but he carries on.

He needs to tell Dean everything.

And so he ends the description and falls silent, still unable to meet Dean's gaze. The coldness in his cheek is bizarrely conjugated with the gaping hollow of coldness in his stomach, neither a reasonable physical occurrence, and yet he cannot deny that the feeling, while sourcing from psychological issues, is acutely physical.

The left side of his chest feels eerily weak and aching. And the silence that hangs between him and Dean is cold and alien, filled with shock and remorse that blend together into a sick knot which paradoxically drives him and Dean apart. He feels a brief lurch of hysteria pulse through his system with melting force.

"Cas…" Dean finally speaks, his voice a broken whisper, helpless. "Cas… oh, Cas… Jesus… Cas…"

Seemingly incapable of voicing anything more, Dean suddenly launches, wrapping his arms tight around Castiel. Castiel is shocked, but it lasts for a mere fraction of a second, his entire self welcoming the abrupt flood of warmth, and he selfishly soaks it all, eager, needy, desperate for it, even despite his unworthiness of it. On an impulse, he clings to Dean, fisting his shirt tight in a grip, wanting to hold him close, safe, be reminded that he is alive.

"Cas…"

"This is why now I understand why you don't like watching the documentaries," he mumbles, though he doesn't really know why. "Because there might be thousands identical creatures, but the one you attach yourself to…" he trails off, half because his voice is oddly failing him, and half because he's unsure what to say further, how to complete an abstract thought in the language of human words.

He wishes to remain in Dean's embrace forever, but he knows he shouldn't, _Dean_ shouldn't be holding him, not ever, and especially not now! Not when he's admitted to killing him a thousand times over, with coldness premeditation and lack of restraint!

"Dean…" he pulls away, his heart lurching as he does, but he ignores it, pushing himself away from Dean until he at last meets his green eyes. The eyes in which the essence of virtuous and _true_ humanity swirls in a myriad of green and golden shades. "Dean, I'm… I'm sorry."

His beloved's face grows puzzled, and he shakes his head a little in indication he doesn't comprehend Castiel's message.

"What for, Cas?" he asks, his voice cracking with sheer confusion.

"I… killed you…" he forces the words out, his eyes slipping away from Dean's again. "Repeatedly. Over and over again, until I never hesitated when killing another one of you, until I didn't care, until it _didn't matter_, I-"

"Cas!" Dean grips his shoulders so tight that it sends a blurred flare of pain through his nerve endings, and the shock of receiving a physical pain from Dean sends him into silence. "Cas, listen to me," Dean's voice is quiet but fiery, matched by the almost angry passion in his eyes. "It wasn't you. Get it? _It. Wasn't. You_. That bitch had you _brainwashed_, Cas, it was her, not you!"

"I beat you! I attacked you!" a powerful surge of screams explodes from Castiel suddenly, burning his throat as he feels it clenching, and something hot and scalding burns his eyes. "I almost killed you in that crypt, Dean!"

"But you didn't!" Dean screams back, and takes a quick, deep breath. When he speaks again, it's in a calmer tone, and it's timbre affects Castiel, brushing over his soul. "You didn't. And it wasn't you who attacked me and beat me up there, it was her again, she had you remote-controlled, like a fucking Christmas present fire truck. But you know what _you_ did? You broke through and _didn't_ kill me. Damn it, Cas, you were strong enough to defeat her. _That's_ what you did in that crypt."

The heat in Castiel's eyes spills, and Dean brushes a thumb over his cheek, spreading some wetness over his skin. There's the faintest hint of a smile in the corners of Dean's lips, and his eyes are flooding Castiel with such abundance of warmth and love that it hitches Castiel's breath.

"I… I couldn't," he whispers. "I couldn't do it."

"Yeah, I know," Dean whispers soothingly, and it works, the inner turmoil slowly beginning to subside within Castiel.

Dean is still cradling his face in his hands, but he's looking thoughtful, pondering on something.

"Tell me why?" he asks, looking like he deems it a bad idea.

Castiel blinks, confused. He'd have thought it obvious…

"I love you, Dean," he replies simply. "And I loved you then, and for a long time."

It's Dean's breath that hitches now, his lips moving briefly like he wants to say something, but he just grips the back of Castiel's neck and presses his forehead against his, wrapping his other arm around his back, holding him close.

"You know, you should listen to your own advice, Cas," Dean murmurs, closing his eyes, and looking like he drinks in the shared closeness. "Cause you're pretty damn wise, dude. You keep telling me that it wasn't really me who led you to your death in that 2014 thing… So you really should be smart enough to figure it wasn't really you who killed all those me-copies either," Dean smiles, lovingly running a hand over Castiel's cheek, and he soaks up the warmth of the touch, leaning into it.

Dean's words leave him cleansed more than any absolution, celestial or otherwise, and he closes his eyes, too, wrapping his arms around Dean in return.

Then, Dean whispers again.

"I love you, too, by the way."

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed :D It wouldn't be Dean and Cas without an emotional rollercoaster of angst and panic. I wasn't at my 100% when writing this (exams and all), so be kind :P**

**Next chapter - we FINALLY get Kevin, and also Crowley in person. Actually, more funny and optimistic than it sounds :P**

**Please review! Those puppies make me beam and absolutely make my day, fill my heart with pink fluffy joy and make me write faster :)**


	10. A house in a junkyard

**Well, I'm over the exams, but I've been hit with one assbutt of a writing block. I hope to hammer my way through it soon, and in the meantime I hope this new chapter here is readable.**

**Big thanks to everyone who reviews, faves, follows - you guys make me grin :D**

**Here it is, I hope you enjoy! It was rather tough to write.**

* * *

**10. A house in a junkyard**

Sam slowly swallows his last sip of coffee, and glances at his watch to decide that enough is enough. It's 5:15 am, and they're supposed to head out in half an hour. He really was hoping to avoid this, but looks like the luck is not on his side (not unusually, mind).

He's gonna have to wake up Dean and Cas.

Puffing out his cheeks in a self-preparatory sigh, Sam heaves himself off the chair at the kitchen table, and reluctantly makes his way down the corridors, homing in on the room occupied by the couple. He'd been hoping they'd get up on their own – they're supposed to visit Kevin, after all – but since they both have the tendency to sleep in, Sam should have seen this coming a mile off.

Sure, Cas and Dean are adorable together, but there's a reason Sam has his bedroom far away from theirs, and it's the same reason that has him cringing now as he approaches their door, ready to plug his ears and turn back. Two or three times he's heard (and even once _seen_) more than he'd care to, and he's not keen to expand on that experience.

He stops by the door and listens out for a moment to make sure the coast is clear. His stance and mood instantly relax when he hears a small snore emanate from inside the room, and he smiles a little to himself. Can be either Dean or Cas, both of them snore occasionally, though Cas more often, and also more persistently, as Sam found from the instances they all shared a motel room on one case or other. (Though apparently, if Dean's frankly hyperbolic accusations are true, Sam's the biggest snore in their little family.)

Emboldened, and also marginally pissed at those two for not getting up yet, Sam pushes the door handle and lets himself in, flicking on the light.

There they are, sound asleep, Dean sprawled on his back and being the one who emits the snoring, Cas draped atop him, with his head on Dean's chest and an arm thrown over him in a loose embrace, while Dean's hand tenderly rests on the top of Cas' head, fingers in the dark hair.

It's an image that would be adorable _if_ the two weren't stark freaking naked, as far as Sam can see. Their clothes are strewn around on the floor, and the blanket they sleep under is settled precariously low, barely managing to cover Castiel's ass.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away for a moment. He opens his eyes and looks around for something long – like a stick or a shotgun – which he could use to prod his brother awake without actually touching him, but again the luck just isn't on his side.

"Dean," he tries another non-touching method. "Dean!"

"Hnnnh…"

"Dean! Hey!" Sam picks up a battery from a messy floor (honestly how does Cas put up with this?) and chucks it at his brother, hitting him in the shoulder, which jolts him semi-awake. "Dude, get up!"

"Hnh?" Dean looks around blearily, while Castiel groans and turns his head, trying to bury his face in Dean's chest. Dean's arm moves on instinct, wrapping around Cas' waist, holding him close.

"Dude. It's 5:20. Get up, get ready and move," Sam crosses his arms over his chest, pinning Dean down with his best pressuring stare.

But, going by his brother's unfocused eyes, there's a big chance his effort is going to waste.

"Later, Sammy, jeez…" Dean mumbles sleepily, wrapping his arms tighter around Castiel and turning his head away from Sam. "W'still got time…"

"Dean, I said 5:20! We gotta move by quarter to, it's a long drive."

"So go 'n come back at 5:40. We'll be ready."

"C'mon, Dean," Sam rolls his eyes, growing impatient. In the back of his mind, he's admiring Cas for managing to sleep through the dialogue, especially with half of it being vibrated into his ear. Or maybe dude's just very, very good at playing dead. "Get up. Kevin's gonna be waiting."

Dean sighs slowly, and then speaks in a rough, threatening growl.

"Sam, if you don't get your ass outta here right now, I'm gonna pull back the blanket and we're both gonna flash you!"

Sam instantly turns around, heading out the door.

"I'll be back at 5:40 and if you're not ready then, I'll dump cold water over both of you," he threatens, looking back in the doorstep. Dean manages to flip him off with his eyes closed.

As the door closes behind Sam, Dean lets out a sigh, his head sinking into the pillow, and he runs a hand through Cas' hair, smiling a little when he receives a drowsy hum in response. He chuckles and lifts his head, leaning in to press a kiss into the messy, wild hair.

Cas hums again, shifting over, and the blue eyes open, peering muzzily, and Dean can't stop a wide grin from breaking out on his face. He loves this thing – waking up with Cas in his arms, or the other way around, playfully coaxing him awake, and then spending some pleasant time exchanging lazy kisses and touches in bed.

It's a stupidly, embarrassingly simple thing to be happy about, really – waking up to Cas, sharing the bed with him, being sure that when he wakes up, Cas will be here, not gone, not god-knows-where, not away, but _here_, with him. In a place they both think of as home.

A real chick-flick thing to be happy about, but damn, it feels good.

Dean grins again, running a lazy hand down the hollow of Castiel's spine, and his angel closes his eyes for a moment, soaking up the touch. He then dips his head a little and presses a kiss to the skin of Dean's chest, his soft breath washing over in warmth over Dean's flesh.

But then Cas is bracketing Dean's sides with his hands, heaving himself up with reluctance, clearly intent on getting out of the bed, so naturally Dean has to intervene.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, where d'you think you going?" he wraps his arms securely around Castiel's waist, keeping him in place.

Cas' head tilts to the side in the familiar gesture, blue eyes no longer sleepy, but confused.

"Sam said to get up. And he is right, the sooner we leave, the sooner we'll arrive," he explains.

"He said 5:40. Takes us what, five minutes to get ready? So we still got fifteen minutes to spare," he grins and moves one hand down to pat Castiel's ass.

A glimmer of cheeky amusement passes through the blue eyes, the corners of full lips almost quirking up, and Castiel assumes a mockingly ponderous face, tilting his head to the side once more, but also slightly back as he looks up musingly, and Dean licks his lips at the sight of that throat exposed for his viewing pleasure.

"I suppose there's no harm in utilising the spare time…" Castiel downright _smirks_, and that's the sexiest thing Dean's ever seen.

So he puts one hand on the back of Cas' neck and pulls him down for a kiss, quickly deepening it, and then slowing down, taking his time as he leisurely explores his mouth, tongues sliding together. He withdraws lazily, biting softly on that lush lower lip, feeling the supple flesh give in, and he briefly flicks his tongue over it before pressing one more kiss to Cas' lips, and pulling away.

Dean rolls Cas over onto his back, and Cas lets him, his hands instantly exploring Dean's back, brushing expertly over that sweet spot he's got under his shoulder blade, and Dean moans a little, leaning in to nuzzle that gorgeous neck. He places slow, unhurried kisses up Castiel's throat, tracing the subtle shapes, breathing in the scent that feels like light itself lingering in the back of his throat, brushing over his palate. He hums in contentment, while Castiel's eyes close, his mouth falling open just a little way as he relaxes, his hands roaming over Dean's back, sending quiet tingles of warmth into his flesh.

The fifteen minutes is spent on exchanging lazy kisses, snuggling, wrapping around each other as close as possible, and occasionally whispering a sweet word or two. It's all warmth and rustle of sheets and the scent of each other and an early morning and the remnants of sleep lingering in the bed, and Dean is sorry to see the moment end, but he cheers himself up with the – again, embarrassingly simple – awareness that Castiel will always be beside him when he wakes up, if Dean has any say in the matter.

When Sam invades their room again at 5:40 as promised, he finds Dean searching for his phone, and Cas finishing to get dressed by pulling on his sneakers (freaking Converse, of all things, obtained at a thrift store, and which he looks ridiculously awesome in). Dean girns, taking him in – Cas is wearing a dark grey tee and Dean's blue plaid shirt over it, left unbuttoned, and he's got on a pair of dark jeans that make his ass look so goddamn good that Dean could spend half his day walking behind him. The sneakers complement the look. Dean's grin broadens, and he moves in for a kiss, which has Cas puzzled, but his beloved angel soon melts into it, his arms wrapping around Dean's waist, and Dean just can't resist slipping his hands into his back jeans pockets.

Promptly after that, they load themselves and their duffle bags into the Impala, and drive off, into the first rays of the rising sun.

* * *

Sam groans when Dean puts the _Razors Edge_ album tape into the player just after another one of his AC/DC collection has been played, but Dean merely flips him off and notches the volume a little bit up, just to be obnoxious. Cas likes _Thunderstruck_, which opens the tape Dean compiled himself ages ago, so he's not gonna complain.

The day is sunny and rather warm for early October as they drive to South Dakota. They're on their way to visit Kevin who lives in the Panic Room in Bobby's still mostly wrecked house, because the kid's been acting a little weird lately, so it's time for some supervision.

Song follows song, Dean opens the driver's side window and rests his elbow on the frame as he adds another 10 mph, and beside him Sam is sulking, because Cas didn't want to play that weird 'Words With Friends' game with him. Poor thing's a little disheartened since that one time when Sam, by a fluke, won by some freakishly high score. Personally, Dean's glad – one less nerdy game to be forced to listen to.

"I think he's getting too secluded," is Sam's Dr Phil opinion on Kevin. "He should do something, you know, or move back to the bunker."

"Yeah, well, he moved _out_ of there, so I don't think so, Sammy. I mean, I know it sucks to be the youngest in the pack, but leave Kevin out of this."

"Shut up. And dude, I spent more time in Hell than you, so technically _you're_ the youngest now," Sam shoots him a smug bitchface.

"That doesn't count! And besides, I fed you and changed your stinky diapers, that's proof you're younger than me, dude!"

"Passage of time makes age, Dean."

"Hey! I raised you!"

"So you got no one to blame about my habits."

"Bitch!"

They fall silent, but there's not heat in it. Dean likes those bickers – good for letting off some steam. The Impala continues to glide down the road, ploughing into the landscape.

"I'm going to vomit," Cas suddenly announces in the tone of a man deciding to undertake an exciting journey.

Dean's attention instantly snaps to the rear-view mirror. Sam's jaw drops.

"_What_?!" he spits out in horror.

"It's a most curious sensation," Castiel's fingers wander idiotically from his stomach up across his chest, like he's conducting some examination. "I have never experienced it before."

"Roll down the window, stick your head out, and let the guy behind us worry about this!"

"_Dean_! Cas, stop it, he's not serious!"

"The hell I'm not!"

"Dude, just stop the car if he's gonna throw up!"

"…I think it's passing."

"Yeah, keep it that way, honey-bee."

"Please don't mention honey, for some reason it increases my nausea."

"I told you that you should eat less honey, Cas."

"He said not to mention it, Sam! If he barfs, you're cleaning the upholstery!"

Sam huffs, turning back around to face the windscreen, muttering something unflattering under his breath about Dean and Castiel, but Dean lets it slide, too busy checking in the mirror if Cas isn't throwing up. He loves him and everything, but he also loves his Baby's upholstery, and it's been stained with blood and other shit too many times already – no way he's adding second-hand honey and cereal yoghurt to the mix.

Luckily, Cas' nausea passes completely, and Dean is glad there are no sharp turns for a long while on the highway, and tells Cas to focus on the lines in the fields they're passing through.

The landscape is vast, smooth hills gently rising and falling, casting a slow progression of shades and deepening hues of sunlight over the golden crops of late wheat, the last portions waiting to be harvested, and the sight is very soothing. Cas seems to think so too, because he visibly relaxes, blue eyes trailing over the landscape

The rest of the long drive passes in relative peace, with no more verbal skirmishes or vomit alerts. Sam whines something about getting a portable DVD player and tries to lure Cas into being his ally (the sneaky little bitch seems to consider Cas' support as a guarantee that Dean will agree to something, and damn him, he's actually right), but Cas doesn't seem too hot about the idea, claiming indifference.

He does get bored on long drives though, and Dean can easily see that in the lingering glances he throws at him through the rear view mirror. He usually copes with it by either reading, or listening to music on Sam's iPod.

Cas has his own folder on that thing, with his favourites (he likes classic rock, which Dean takes personal pride in, but he especially enjoys classic jazz, and some of that has been downloaded onto Sam's iPod), and to be honest, it makes Dean a little jealous. (He's jealous of Sam – how low can he stoop?!) Because he doesn't have anything like that for Cas, Cas doesn't have his collection of travel favourites on anything that belongs to Dean, and as much as Dean knows this is irrational, he's a bit jealous of the fact that Cas has this thing with Sam. He wishes he could have it with Cas, but he can't, because he's a tape kinda guy.

Still, he tries to be zen and all that crap, and thinks he shouldn't smother Cas so much, and besides those two are friends, so naturally they're gonna share stuff. Hell, Dean and Cas also are still friends, because the fact that they got together didn't cancel out all those things they had before. They are best friends, and also in love with each other.

Bonded. Yeah, bonded, that sounds better.

Dean doesn't like being forced to name what he and Cas have, because no term seems just right, each alternative too limited in one way or another, or too cheesy. So he doesn't name it, and neither does Cas, because they don't need to.

They know what they have, and they both know that the other knows too. And it doesn't matter that they don't have a name for it, because neither one of them is really good with words when it comes to translating emotions into them. What matters, is that they both know. That's perfectly enough.

* * *

They arrive somewhat tired, but in generally good moods. The latter is a state that waver for a moment as they take in the sight. The yard with cars piled high, and the house – still mostly as ruined as it was all this time since Bobby's death.

It hurts to come back here, and be so very clearly faced with the inevitable fact that Bobby is gone. Again, Dean is just a little bit jealous of Sam – he got to see Bobby one more time, save him from Hell, speak to him again. He doesn't hate Sam for it, he just… kinda wishes he had that shot, too. He's glad for the kid, he knows how badly Sam took the whole thing (not unlike himself, mind), but he just wishes they both could have gone.

Kevin is occupying the restored Panic Room, where he also keeps both Tablets. Dean hopes to heck the kid hid them both, because Cas gets all shifty and revisits the spiral of self-loathing whenever he sees them.

"Hey, how you doing, champ?" Dean gives Kevin a nod as the kid opens the heavy iron door to let them in.

"OK., actually," Kevin shrugs, and exchanges brief greetings with Sam and Cas as well. "Took you long enough to visit though."

"Yeah, sorry about that… we got back to hunting and all," Sam apologises sheepishly.

"I get it," Kevin gives a placating shrug, and walks to a rickety table moved up to a massive desk to serve as the latter's extension, and opens a half-empty brandy, pouring himself half a generous glass. "So how's it going?" he takes a swig.

Dean frowns, watching him swallow without any visible burn. He's noticed it before already, the way Kevin seems to have discovered the helping qualities of a nice strong shot, and he can't say he likes it. Sure, it's what he does himself, but damn it, that's different! This kid's got other options, and he's just… not the type.

"Uh, it's OK.," Sam shrugs in response to the question. "We got a couple of demons recently."

"Yeah, Garth tells me they're riled up," Kevin takes another swig. "Apparently, they're having some, uh… _management problems_? You guys know anything about that?"

Dean exchanges a shifty look with Sam and Cas. It's an egg-shells subject for all involved, for each of them for a different reason, and Dean doesn't want Kevin cracking yet again. Still, before either he or Sam (preferably Sam…) can try for a vague version, Cas steps in and takes the helm.

"Crowley has resigned his function as the King of Hell, ever since Sam's interrupted effort to heal him," he explains in his gravelly voice, his ass perched against the edge of the desk as he watches Kevin. "He is currently on the run from demons, while Abbadon is attempting to become the King of Hell herself. It is quite a hectic process, since always a fraction will not want a new ruler."

"Huh," says Kevin, looking thoughtful for a moment. "So… that's it for shutting down Hell? I mean, I did as you guys asked, I checked and re-checked, but nothing. There isn't any other way, can't bypass the Trials and the whole dying thing," he takes another sip from his glass. "So that's it?"

Dean nods, eyes running away from all the other gazes in the room. It only takes a second or two for him to gather himself on the inside, lifting his head and facing the world with a brave, stone façade of a small smirk and kickass self-assurance he rarely actually _does_ feel.

"Until we find another way, we're giving the sons of bitches a time-out," he says. "But we still kick their asses whenever we see them."

Kevin nods.

Some time later, they sit on what used to be front porch, each with a beer in hand, and look ahead, making small-talk.

"So, got any plans?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, actually," a twinge of liveliness – a true, lighter liveliness, not neurotic tension – enters Kevin's voice. "I'm going to college."

"Oh?" Dean can hear the tentativeness dripping off Sam's voice – Kevin doesn't have his SATs, after all.

"Well, I got good with papers and stuff," Kevin shrugs, busying himself with picking at his beer's label for a moment. "I looked up this year's SATs online and gave myself the score I got, I checked the answers online later. And for the essay I graded myself on the average of what I used to get on all the training essays I did in school. I made myself a certificate, it's all good and will pass for a real one. I… I didn't cheat, not really, I took an honest SAT, just… you know, not in school," he looks squirmy and insecure all over again, and Dean feels a twinge of sympathy for the kid.

He wants to say something, something funny but also reassuring, but he's coming up dry. He never can get his thoughts into words, not when it matters, _especially_ when it matters. For a moment, he feels like failing a kid Sam all over again, and it stings like a hellhound bitch.

"I think that's great, Kevin," Sam's voice is filled with light that freaking _beams_ from his smile, and he's all encouragement and grins and vicarious excitement. And that stings, too, because Dean knows that Sam would like to go back to college himself.

"Thanks," Kevin gives a shy smile. "I'm gonna try to enrol next year."

"What will you pursue?" Castiel asks with interest, and Kevin glances at him slightly relieved. He's still somewhat intimidated by Cas, but well, kid can't really be blamed – all the times he's met Cas, especially initially, weren't really the best to cement a friendship.

"I, uh… I was actually thinking ancient texts. Maybe archaeology," Kevin confesses, slightly nervous. "I got good at it with the whole Prophet of the Lord deal," he mumbles, and takes a sip from his beer.

"Sounds cool, man," Dean sends the kid a small smile. "So, no Asian-American president then?"

Kevin scowls, looking away.

"Yeah, well, that was stupid anyway…" he mumbles, and takes a large gulp. Over his head, Sam sends Dean a stink-eye bitchface, not that he needs, because Dean has already registered that this might not have been the best thing to say.

"I think it's a good line of study," Castiel's voice rumbles softly on Dean's other side, and Kevin throws him a grateful look.

They all lapse into a comfortable silence, and Dean takes a deep, relaxing breath, before taking a just as relaxing swig of his beer, and discreetly moves a little closer to Cas. He glances out the corner of his eye, studying his profile – Cas is gazing ahead, softly lost in thought, early autumn sunlight falling on his face. There's peace in his features, and Dean drinks it in, letting it feed a flickering sensation of peace in his own heart.

Cas closes his eyes for a moment and angles his face into the sun. It's a new gesture, one that he acquired along with his humanity, and he once told Dean that now that the skin encasing him is irrevocably his own, he feels the warmth of the sun much more directly than he used to, even when he would fly through it as an angel.

Time ticks by in lazy minutes, measured out for Dean in the steady dwindling of the beer in his bottle, and Cas' side is warming his where they're pressed together. The air isn't chilly, but the warmth distinctly comes only from the sun, not from all the air like it did in the summer. Cas is headed for his first human winter, Dean thinks fondly, and celebrates the thought with a slow sip of beer.

There is a figure coming into view ahead, in between piles of cars, and Dean squints to make out details. Looks like a man… in a suit… and…

"Sam! Dean!"

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me!" Dean growls out in equal measures of anger and surprise.

It's Crowley, and he's quickly walking towards them now, all four of them tensing out of instinct and also shock. Dean slides off the porch and takes a step forward, shoulder squared in readiness, beer forgotten as he positions himself somewhat between Cas and the oncoming Crowley. Just like the fucking angel encounter back in August, this is one of those 'incidents' the prospect of which has Dean staring up into ceiling at nights with a cold feeling in his gut. He has no idea how Cas is going to react to such a powerful trigger, and he doesn't want to find out.

So naturally, fate gives him a front row seat for the show.

"The hell are you doing here?!" Dean demands angrily as soon as Crowley is close enough.

The mostly-cured demon slows down, looking almost timid, which, ironically enough, is one of the weirdest things Dean has seen in his life. Dark brown eyes flash insecurely over each of the four less-than-welcoming faces, lingering a little on Castiel's, which causes Dean to lean to the side, blocking Crowley's view.

"I was planning to visit Kevin," Crowley explains, looking towards the kid. Dean can't see what sort of face Kevin is making, but that's another reaction he doesn't really want to witness. "And it's surprising to find you here, too, but lucky."

"Define 'lucky'," growls Dean. "What do you want."

"I… wanted to make amends."

"Yeah, well, you can blow me," Kevin snaps, his voice slightly high-pitched, as always when he's close to cracking.

"I'm sorry, Kevin, I'm truly sorry," Crowley slowly shakes his head.

"I get that you're different now, but doesn't mean I can just forgive and forget," Kevin shrugs, and downs the rest of his beer in one long go.

Crowley looks disappointed, but not surprised, nodding softly to himself, and Dean reckons he'd probably expected that sort of reaction.

"Good to see you again, Sam," Crowley turns to Sammy, slipping his hands into his blazer pockets – apparently, what demon powers remain in him, are still enough to keep him immaculately dressed.

"Yeah…" Sam murmurs and looks shifty, in a way that causes Dean to narrow his eyes in suspicion. Sam's shiftiness has gone above average in recent weeks, and it takes a lot of will power from Dean to keep sitting on his hands.

"Cas… Castiel," Crowley speaks earnestly and reverently, turning to Cas, and Dean holds out a hand in a stopping gesture.

"Alright, back it up," he growls low at Crowley.

"Dean," a warm hand on his shoulder almost makes him jump, because he hadn't heard Cas hop off the porch or approach him – not an angel anymore, and still he needs a bell around his neck.

His voice is steady and levelled, his hold on Dean's shoulder light, but emanating balanced strength and complete assurance. It's one of those instances where Castiel is completely in control of himself and his surroundings because he chooses to be so, makes a resolution to be so, and it comes to him naturally. It's also one of those things that leave Dean in awe, wondering just how much angel was in Castiel's presence before his Grace was stolen. Because by the looks of him as a human, it seems most of that steady, otherworldly power was just _Cas_. Helped and reinforced by the angel mojo, no doubt about it, but the impressive presence seems to have come from his own nature and disposition.

Because right now, he feels like an angel all over again.

So Dean steps away without protest, just giving Castiel a lingering, communicative look, just so his angel knows that he's not entirely on board with this, and asks him to be careful. Castiel holds his gaze, and Dean knows he got the message.

"Hello, Crowley," Cas responds politely, facing the demon.

Dean looks over his shoulder to check on Kevin, and finds him heading back into the ruined house, Sam hard on his heels, talking to the kid. Cursing under his breath, Dean shifts his gaze in between the two duos in his line of sight, before he dives in after Sammy and Kevin. Castiel's collected countenance reassures him, he normally would hate himself for leaving his angel, but… Cas' strength is enough to make Dean trust it completely.

After all, Castiel promised he wasn't going to break.

Dean's cheeks flush with heat and his heart hammers wildly as he remembers that early night, in bed, after visiting Gabriel's dying place, when under the sheets, in each other's embrace, Castiel explained why he's never going to break. He still can't think about it without wanting to duck his head away, like he did then, burying it in Cas' chest, under his chin, hiding away.

Cas said the reason he won't break, is Dean.

* * *

"So… you look well," Crowley commences in his usual slow, light tone, turning his head a little as he gives Castiel an appraising glance. There is just a flicker of humour in his tone, but no actual mockery. "Holding up remarkably _Cas_ for a _disgraced_ angel."

His words aren't meant to sting deep, barely a superficial scratch of habitual sarcasm and puns, and Castiel recognises it, but also discovers that it wouldn't have disturbed him even if Crowley had meant for the words to hit him strongly.

"Thank you," he replies simply. "You look slightly worse than usual," he's sure that if Dean was here, he would have smirked, a touch of pride curling in the corners of his pleasantly shaped lips. Castiel likes seeing this expression.

Crowley nods, more to himself than in a gesture of communication, and his eyes drift downward, to Castiel's left collarbone, and he knows what Crowley is looking at. The T-shirt he's wearing is loose, the collar stretched, and apparently a fragment of his anti-possession tattoo peeks out above the hem.

"For what's it worth, I wish it were different, Castiel," Crowley speaks, his tone honest as he makes eye contact again.

"I'm content," Castiel replies, and he finds those words are purely sincere in every aspect, leaving his mouth at the exact same moment the emotional thought forms in his mind.

He _is_ content, pleased with the life he has. He has no desire to re-obtain his Grace, and not at all because he knows it is not possible. No, it is because he is pleased, more than that, he is _happy_ with the physically human life he has now. He has a home, he has a true family. He has Dean.

He has no reason to wish for an alternative.

A small smile flicks across Crowley's face.

"Well, well, well… good for you," he acknowledges a little warmly. "You deserve that, you know. Not the graceless thing, the happy thing."

"Thank you," he's not entirely sure it's true.

"I, uh…" Crowley looks down, rocking briefly on the balls of his feet. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. Truly sorry for everything that's happened between us, Castiel. For everything that I did to you."

"The blame is not solitary."

"Yeah, but there's an aspect ratio there. I did more bad thank you, and… I wanted to apologise. Make amends. I am sorry, Castiel. For trying to take you out, for harming your boys, for hurting you, for the Tablets, for shooting you, for almost killing you. I'm sorry for everything I did to you," Crowley speaks in a quiet but fiery voice, his eyes never once wavering away from Castiel's as the words pour out of him.

Castiel gives a small nod.

"I forgive you," he replies steadily and, most importantly, honestly. He is aware of the value of true forgiveness and absolution, after all.

Crowley blinks, surprised.

"You do?"

"I can't not forgive," Castiel explains plainly. "You are now a different person than you were when you committed those acts, so I cannot hold you accountable for them now. So naturally the person you are now, has my forgiveness. But only for the harms done to myself – I cannot grant you my absolution for what you did to others," his voice hardens as he thinks of all that Dean and Sam have had to endure, as well as Kevin, though perhaps in a lesser degree – he is, after all, far more emotionally joined with the brothers than he is with the Prophet.

"Oh," Crowley replies. A small smile again flicks over his face. "Thank you, then. It means a lot."

"You are welcome."

"I wish others were as open-minded, not that I can blame them."

"They lack perspective. They have always been human and not known any other way to look at things, than the human way. You must give them time," Castiel replies.

Crowley nods.

* * *

"So, where have you been hanging?" Dean asks, popping another beer open. He's gonna need some support to get through this weird-ass group reunion.

Half an hour since Crowley's appearance, they're all grouped together in one of the rooms, trying to have a civilised, calm conversation (Sammy's idea). Cas looks peaceful, so Dean's willing to give this thing a try. And anyway, he thinks Crowley could be a handy ally – having been the King of Hell and all, he could provide them with some useful intel whenever they go hunt demons or try to get a grip on the whole Hell situation in general. Especially since he seems guilt-prone, so it shouldn't take much to get him to cooperate, Dean thinks, perhaps a little cruelly, but sue him.

"I've been on the run, mostly," Crowley shrugs a little. "A lot of demons want to kill me."

"How's Abbadon doing?" Dean takes a swig of his beer.

"From what I know, upsettingly well."

"Bitch."

"So… you're gonna have some place to stay, or… just move around?" Sam asks, and a red flag promptly pops up in Dean's brain – Sammy seems intent on populating the Batcave, and if he's thinking what Dean _thinks_ he's thinking, then _no freaking way_.

"I suppose I'll look for something," Crowley replies. "It would be good to settle somewhere, but they're always going to find me, sooner or later."

"You could stay here," pipes in Kevin.

All heads turn to look at the ex-future-Asian-American president, and Dean's eyebrows shoot up slightly, while Cas cocks his head to side in that endearing way of his. God, Dean loves that look. Hell, he loves _Cas_…

"Excuse me?" Crowley is no less surprised than the rest of them, and Kevin simply shrugs.

"I was gonna move anyway. Garth found something for me, near you guys, actually," he briefly addresses Dean, Sam and Cas. "I'm going to college next year, and I was getting a bit sick of this place anyway. So I'm moving, the new place is nice, Garth sent pictures. Two-room apartment, safe and demon-proofed. I'm gonna do some text works for the other hunters before I go to college. So you can stay here, as far as I'm concerned."

Dean just blinks, because he still doesn't really have anything to say, because _this is Bobby's place, dammit_, but at the same time the idea of Crowley settling down here doesn't feel as sacrilegious as it should be, and that weirds him out all the more.

"Thank you, Kevin," Crowley says, still surprised, and then looks to Sam and Dean. "I don't know if I can stay here though…"

"Uh… fine by me?" Sam makes an odd face and does a vague gesture with his hands. "You know, if Kevin is leaving anyway… better to have someone look after this place, right?" he glances at Dean. "And you've got the Panic Room in case the demons come after you… unless you can't go in there either?"

"Oh, I can. Mostly cured, remember, Moose? It hurts a bit, but I can tough it out."

All eyes are on Dean now, and he tries to keep his brain from short-circuiting. Because this is so friggin weird, _Crowley_, living _here_. But at the same time it makes some sick sort of sense, the house being looked after and possibly slowly rebuilt. Crowley could be a valuable ally, so keeping him alive and able-bodied is a good idea, and the best odds he has to stay alive are here. Well, second-best, best odds he'd have in the Batcave, but that's not happening.

And then there's something else for Dean. Something more than strategy, allies and looking after the house. It's odd and unexpected, but also warm and making a bizarre sense, and bringing a sense of full circle or something like that.

"Yeah… what the hell," he finally says, and pulls another gulp from his cool bottle.

Sam smiles, while Kevin announces he's gonna go pack up, because he wants Sam and Dean to give him a ride back, since his new digs is in the same state as the Batcave (and Dean's grateful the kid doesn't actually name the state when in Crowley's company). Soon some loud noises are coming from downstairs, Kevin going through his stuff as he packs, while Crowley takes a tour of the house, moving around the trashed and smoke-blackened rooms like he already owns the place, but there's less haughtiness in his step than there used to be.

He wanders around what used to be the living room, and slowly glides a hand over the charred remains of the table, looking ponderous and pleased.

"I'm going to tide it up. And get a roof," he adds, a little snarky, as he looks up pointedly. "It's a nice house, I suppose."

Sam smiles like everything is okay, and Dean frowns, thinking that maybe it actually is. Maybe he's cool with Crowley setting up camp here. He looks at Cas, finding his angel looking content as well, but not nearly as surprised with the sudden development as the rest of their little group. Then again, hard to surprise a guy who's been around longer than the Sun.

It's a little after sunset when they leave, daylight still strong and warm, but fading, and they know they'll have to stop at a motel for the night. Kevin throws his bags into the trunk, and Dean kicks Sammy out to the backseat, giving Cas the shotgun, because he likes to do that sometimes.

The Impala roars to life with a familiar sound, and Dean pulls out from before the house, lingering for a moment. His brother is nerding out with Kevin in the back over archaeology studies and options. Cas is sitting beside him, a book in his lap (Agatha Christie), ready to read, but for now he's looking at Dean. Dean catches his gaze and smiles, sinking into the comfort of it, the peaceful blue, and he reaches out to run a loving hand through Cas' hair, not caring if the other guys can see it.

He takes one more look at the house. Crowley is standing by the front porch, looking at them, and raises a hand to wave briefly.

And there's something inexplicably and completely okay about this. Again, the sensation of a full circle comes to Dean's mind, because there is some balance about this. A constant.

The house is still here, and soon it's going to be fixed. And again, whenever they visit South Dakota, there will be a house in a scrap yard, and in the house will be a familiar old man with a quirky sense of humour, willing to help.

Some things have changed – the man is different, and so much older, really, than the other one, and his sense of humour is different, but also specific and full of jibes.

But something about this whole thing is the same. And it makes Dean feel like Bobby would have approved.

* * *

**Like I said, it was tough to write, and I don't feel 100% about it... I hope it was readable!**

**Next chapter - boys go on another hunt, Cas gets another go at holding the FBI badge right side up, and Destiel stuff happens all in between :)**

**Please review, those little balls of fluffy goodness are the joy of my days :)**


	11. Back in trench

**Yes, a quicker update at last :) So proud of myself right there. The block is crumbling, I hope I can break through it completely. Also, this chapter is shorter, the last two were long, because I needed things to happen in them. Now I'm back to my preferred length :)**

**So here the boys start a new hunt, and Cas pulls out the trench coat again! :D**

**Enjoy and review!**

* * *

**11. Back in trench**

Dean loves living with Cas.

He half-expected himself to not be so thrilled, after a basic lifetime of bunking with his own little brother, and when he first settled in the Batcave, he was damn ecstatic to have his own room. But having Cas share this room with him, making it _theirs_, turned out to be even better. It feels obvious and natural, just like his whole relationship with Cas does – it feels _right_ and it happens in its own time and pace.

Dean's nesting like hell and he knows it, but he doesn't care. For once, he's fucking determined to let something good happen to him.

He's put up more shelves in their room, to accommodate their growing inventory. He likes to see Cas' things mingle with his, their books lined in between each other, though admittedly (and obviously) Cas has more books than Dean does. He obediently reads some good stuff that Dean suggests, and he likes all of it (how could he not? It's brilliant stuff, especially Vonnegut), so Dean supposes he should return the favour and read that _Thief Lord_ book about kids in Venice that Cas has gently coaxed him towards but didn't press.

Dean spots it on one of the shelves, plucking it out from among many others making up his and Cas' joined collection. Cas is fond of Kipling and Verne, he says he's fascinated with the beauty of human imagination as it 'conceives fathomed worlds and imaginary places on Earth', but as far as authors go, he's recently also discovered Agatha Christie (the chick had balls and one disturbingly creative imagination – Dean kinda likes some of her stuff, too). He treats it as a fascinating study in human psychology, which is why he seems to prefer it over those Sherlock Holmes stories, which Sam can't forgive him for some reason. Sometimes Dean worries about his two nerds and their little book club.

Dean looks at the book in his hands. He's got at least an hour to kill… Sam dragged Cas off on a morning run (seriously, Dean needs to start looking out for his angel, because Sammy is gonna rope him into all that health and self-help yoga shit), and Dean's already made and ate his breakfast.

Huh. Maybe there's something on the TV…

Book still dutifully clutched in his hand, he pads over to the living room, where he locates the remote (laid out neatly on the low-legged TV table, a clear sign Cas was the one using it last, always putting things back in their place and making them hard for Dean to find…) and throws himself back onto the sofa.

The TV, like the ever-growing stack of DVDs by it, is a sign of settling down. They wouldn't have gotten it if they didn't have intentions of sticking around for long, and Dean likes it, even if for a long time he was tentative about it. He has just one memory of a home, and that memory was burned into cinder in flames, along with his mother and sense of secure happiness, blazed away forever. After that, throughout his life he was thrown into a recurring pattern of any kind of happiness being immediately snatched away from him, with hurt and repercussions that outweighed and overpowered the happiness they took away.

So it had been a long, and sometimes still ongoing struggle to let himself settle down in the Batcave. Let himself hope he's got something like a home, and a kind of happiness here. Let himself hope things are OK in terms of home, more permanent and very cool, by the way.

And let himself hope he's got Cas.

Well, damn. Now he really feels like a sucky romantic partner for putting off reading that damn book so long.

He throws a cross-eyed look at the paperback volume perched on a pillow beside him. The cover is blue, showing an arching bridge over water at night, a cloaked and masked silhouette creeping across it against the rising moon. Looks nice.

Cas had said the story is about orphaned kids in Venice, living by stealing and getting tangled up in a big case, led by their mysterious chief, the Thief Lord, who is a kid himself. He mentioned something about brothers. Could be fun to read, actually…

There's nothing on TV anyway, Dean picks up the remote and turns the screen off, and opens the book. It has a hand-painted map of Venice, and he looks at it, squinting to read miniature letters.

Alright, then. Thieves and kids sound fun. He liked _The Three Musketeers_ when he was a kid.

* * *

He's somewhere on page 30 or something when a familiar tune of Deep Purple's _Smoke on the water_ chimes into the story. He flops the book face-down on the sofa, keeping it open that way, and picks his phone up from the small table – ID claims it's Garth.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks as he takes the call.

"Yeah, hi, Dean, I got a case for you guys, if you want… I mean, you really ought to, cause it's in Kansas, and I've got no one else there, and it's been a while, and it's weird, and you guys are good with the weird, I mean even hunters' standard weird-"

"Garth, hey," Dean stops the ramble. "Focus, dude. Details."

"Right. So, there's this thing in a town near you, a guy dropped dead just like that, no apparent reasons. Thirty six, married, one kid, and he just drops dead like that, the found him in the forest where he was walking the family dog. The dog ran home and alarmed the wife, they went searching and found him dead. The autopsy went through, no diseases, no heart conditions or anything, no physical trauma, no nothing! Doctors are stumped. I think you guys should check this out."

"Right…well, I'd say it sounds witchy, but those bitches always leave some trace, victims don't just expire like that. OK., send over the info, we'll get on it."

"Thanks."

Twenty minutes later Dean browses through the email on his account, and a few things he printed out of the attachments. Mostly data, location, local newspaper article and obituary, Garth's ideas about what the culprit is (in short, he very much wants to have an idea, but doesn't really have one).

He hears the bunker door open and slam shut, and soon Sam and Cas are clambering down the stairs, finding him in the map room where he sits at the table with his laptop, squinting into a scan of the scrawl of Garth's handwriting.

Cas had helped himself to Dean's sweatpants to run with Sam, completing the attire with one of his T-shirts, and Dean lets his eyes linger. He always likes seeing Cas in his clothes (it really shouldn't be so hot, but for some reason it is), and now there's the added bonus of Cas flushed with exercise, his breathing still a little faster and deeper than average. His eyes shine, brightened, cheeks slightly pink, hair all wild, swept by the wind, and the tee sticks close to his form, revealing the smooth, lean shapes. Dean's eyes linger on those full lips, parted and pinkish from the quickened blood circulation, and he thinks that perhaps letting Cas go on a morning run from time to time isn't so bad if he's gonna come back looking like this – worked up and delicious.

"Hey," Sam breathes in greeting, and takes a long gulp from a glass of orange juice he'd managed to pour himself in the kitchen.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel smiles, the blue eyes twinkling in that familiar way of withheld, hidden humour, and Dean grins, getting up from the table, making a beeline for his angel.

"Hey, champion," he chuckles, and pulls Cas in for a kiss.

The back of Cas' neck is damp with sweat, and Dean can feel the heat of his body radiating into his own. The kiss is soft and slow, and he lets it linger, feeling Castiel's comfort and quiet contentment. He bites gently on that addictively supple lower lip and pulls away, Sam groaning somewhere in the background, but hey, screw him, Dean is having a moment with his angel.

"Enjoy your run?"

"Very. I find it refreshing and stimulating," there's a smile on Cas' face, a hint of teeth peeking out in between his lips, and Dean loves it.

"Good," he murmurs, leaning in to press one more brief kiss to that smile.

Some of Castiel's hair has formed into bangs, crossing his forehead in tousled strands and wisps, and as good as this look is on him, Dean reaches up with his hand and pushes Cas' hair back and to the side, fashioning it into his usual hairdo. As Cas is human, it's too early for Dean to see him with bangs, it strikes too close to the vision of the permanently stoned hippie Cas conjured by Zachariah in that sick 2014 scenario.

"Garth gave us a case?" Sam's question interrupts Dean's amateur hairdressing, and he abandons Cas' hair to turn around and see Sam leaning over the table, peering into the print-outs and Dean's laptop screen.

"Uh, yeah. I said we'd take it, cause it's really close, and it's weird. Guy dropped dead just like that, no apparent cause of death."

"Huh," Sam hums into his glass, downing the remainders of juice from it. "We'll, I'm gonna take a shower and then we'll get through the data…" he veers off in the direction of his bathroom.

Cas looks down at himself, a minute frown of displeasure twitching his eyebrows.

"I should take a shower, too," he comments to himself, and Dean instantly moves in interest.

Sweaty Cas getting naked and into a steaming shower? Dean has to be there!

"I'm coming with you," he leers with a wide grin, nudging Cas' side playfully as he throws him his best sexy look.

Cas responds with an exasperated, but mostly indulgent look, and they both head out to their bathroom. There's a slight chill in the room, but Dean's only vaguely aware of that, because he's very definitely not feeling cold as he watches Cas peel of his slightly dampened clothes, revealing his lithe, strong body.

He's slender, but nicely proportional, with slim muscles subtly outlined under pale skin, and Dean doesn't want him any other way, because this is hot as hell. He's taking his time watching Cas who stops for a moment to meticulously fold his clothes and place them on a towel rack before he heads into the shower cabin. He steps in, and then turns around, head tilted to the side, blue eyes slightly narrowed and emitting a very smart-ass look, corner of his lips slightly curled up in that half-haughty shadow of a smirk. His whole pose and expression is one cheeky invitation, and Dean's cock definitely responds to the naked invite.

Quickly, Dean shucks his own boxers and T-shirt serving him as pyjamas, and follows Cas into the shower, grinning as he slides the door closed, sealing them away in a small corner of space. Cas turns on the water, and soon they're flooded with a warm downpour, steam slowly beginning to rise in the cabin.

Like many other things, the body wash and shampoo that Cas uses, belong to Dean. And Dean likes it, not only for the concept of sharing with Cas, which for some reason makes him all warm on the inside, but also because there is some sort of pleasure in every now and then catching a whiff of the scent he normally associates with himself, coming from Castiel's skin. The mild scent reacts differently with Castiel's skin than it does with his own, producing an enticing mixture that never fails to get some of Dean's blood pooling south.

Showers with Cas are great. They have sex in them much rarer than Dean would expect from himself, but that's probably there are so many other things to enjoy in a shower (though shower sex is also awesome). Presently, Dean enjoys gliding his hands in the wetness and lather all over the smooth shapes of Cas' torso and sides, feeling the glorious outlines of all the shapes, tracing his favourite paths, brushing over a sweet spot or two. He does so now, slyly caressing a place between Cas' shoulder blades, and watches his eyes close, head falling back a little as his mouth opens in a quiet moan of pleasure and relax that thrums through Dean's body in tingles.

Cas is completely unashamed about showing his pleasure when it's just the two of them, and Dean finds it amazingly hot, obviously, but also somehow… important. Cas being so wholly and completely open with him, even if probably for an angel reacting to pleasure is much less taboo than for a human. But it's not that, it's the fact that Cas is always open with Dean, whether in words, touches, gestures, or just looks – Dean is the only person Castiel is truly open with, and it almost scares Dean. Because it's a sign of ultimate trust on Castiel's behalf. And in a way, Dean has always been completely open with Cas, too – in the important way, not in the sense of not lying to each other, because that they both had, regretfully, done plenty of. Cas had seen him in Hell, at his worst. Cas knows everything about him. And Dean feels completely comfortable with that. Even relieved.

It's a pattern in a shower, that Dean washes Cas' hair, ever since he did that the first time for him, when showing a puzzled and freshly human Cas how to do it properly, both of them dressed and Cas just with his head wet. He likes doing it, there's something calm about it, and he likes being careful not to let any shampoo get into Cas' eyes as he massages his scalp, while Cas relaxes into the feeling of it.

The other part of the pattern is Cas returning the favour by washing Dean's back. Never in his life did Dean ever have anyone do this for him, not even in the two long-ish-term relationship's he's had, and he absolutely loves it. Being so taken care of and sort of looked after… it's new and strange, especially was so at first, but he almost instantly became addicted to it. There's such tenderness and thoroughness in Castiel's methodical and caring movements, spreading the wash over Dean's back, rubbing gently, slightly massaging some stiffened hardness out of his muscles… Dean just relaxes, rests his forehead on his own forearm braced against the wall, and sinks into the long moment.

Cas works without hurry and with much care, and Dean can feel it seeping from his touch into his skin. His hands move up and down, and to the sides, without any routine pattern, but somehow not at random either. It's probably a very Cas pattern, Dean thinks with a small smile. It feels so, so good…

A nondescript time later, Cas dislodges the showerhead from its holder and rinses off Dean's back with a flood of hot water, causing Dean to emit a long hum of relaxed contentment. Cas places the showerhead back in the holder, water still sprinkling from it at full force, and the next moment Dean can feel Castiel's lips on the back of his neck, leaving a trail of kisses heading slowly down, tracing the hollow of his spine. God, it feels good… He can feel the movement of Cas' lips with each kiss, and a brief flick of his hot tongue here and there, a delicate scrape of teeth once or twice. He does it with patience, like Dean is something valuable and sacred, and as he reaches the end of the hollow, just above Dean's ass, he reverses the trail back up, till he's gently, slowly kissing the side of Dean's neck, his chest pressed against Dean's back, and Dean leans away from the wall, into the touch, Cas' arms snaking around his waist.

Dean hums again, letting his eyes close, his head falling back against Cas' shoulder as Cas nibbles on the side of his neck, his tongue soothing the spot soon after. Dean breathes, mouth parted open as he soaks up Cas' ministrations, delicious heat slowly coiling in his belly.

He turns around in Cas' embrace, and pulls him in for a kiss, quickly asking for entrance and enjoying the small moan his angel makes when he explores his mouth slow and thorough. He wraps his arms around Castiel, and they stay pressed close together, kissing under the warm water showering down their bodies

Dean pulls away, smiling as he nudges his wet nose against Cas', throwing him a playful look as he tightens his embrace around his angel even more.

"You should take a morning run more often."

* * *

Sam bitches about them being late and demonstratively shudders when he claims he doesn't want to know why they took so long, and Dean just flips him off.

Now Dean's sitting on the edge of the map table, with Cas perched on a stool, turned back to him as he fits between Dean's knees, and Dean is towelling his hair dry as all three of them go through the hazy data of the new case.

"So, they guy just drops dead when walking his dog," Sam scratches his own still damp head as he reads through a print-out. "No heart condition, no diseases, no nothing… and no marks on the body, nothing eaten or mauled or disfigured."

"Yeah, so nothing wanted to snack on the dude, and whatever it was, didn't snack on the dog either," points out Dean. "So it was probably just about wanting him dead."

"Witches?" Sam arches an eyebrow, though he doesn't seem convinced about his own suggestion.

"Yeah, I thought about that, but you don't have any traces. I mean, the hex bags always cause something, some disorder, like a heart failure or a razor blade in your throat or pins in your stomach, but nothing here, so I don't think so."

"We're gonna have to see the body, see if they missed anything," Sam muses. "Also, no marks reported on the ground where they found the body, so probably no ritual, but we gotta check that out, too. Also, Garth says here that he was given a heads-up about the whole thing from a local woman, she knows about the supernatural and the hunters, and she thought this whole thing seems weird, so she let him know. Maybe we should drop by her."

"Yeah," Dean rubs Cas' hair some more, and whips the towel away, grinning at the fantastic mess of spiky black strands he's managed to create. Cas looks like a spooked hedgehog.

"Dude, focus," Sam sighs in exasperation, but hey, Dean can't be blamed! Cas is hot and distracting!

"I am," he growls. "I'm thinking we go and divide up, two of us go as FBI and one goes check out the place where they found the dude."

"I agree. So, let's pack up and get moving, OK? I think we should stay at a motel there, even if it's close. Better to keep an eye out all the time."

"Uh-huh," agrees Dean, pushing Cas off the stool, and proceeding to hop off the table.

They pack quickly, with practiced efficiency. Dean almost doesn't think on a conscious level as he grabs his essentials and stuffs them in his bag, while beside him Cas is being a little slower and more meticulous with the contents of his own bag (dude _folds_ his tees), and he's still got to get dressed, because after the shower he just pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.

So once both bags are packed, Dean grabs them and goes up to load them into Impala's trunk, telling Cas to get dressed and meet him and Sammy in the armoury, because they have to pick out some weapons to go against a yet unidentified creature.

"Let's take the crossbow," Dean insists, trying to rein in some of his excitement with the prospect.

"Dude, the odds that we're gonna use it are remote."

"Better safe than sorry, man."

"C'mon, you're just saying that because you're hoping you get to use it, which I think is disturbing."

"Suck it, bitch," Dean smirks, taking the crossbow off it's spot where it's hanging on the wall. "We're taking it."

Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest further. Instead, he busies himself selecting from a few swords, while Dean quickly fiddles with the crossbow, checking for any jams or malfunctions waiting to happen, making sure every mechanism is running smooth.

"I'm ready."

Castiel's calm, gravelly voice snaps Dean's attention away from the weapon in an instant, and he turns around to face his angel.

Cas is standing in the doorframe, head slightly tilted to the side as his blue eyes look into Dean's with a quiet question behind them, and Dean's mouth falls slowly open as he stares, unable to say anything in response to that silent question. Because Castiel is standing as he usually does, in a pose between relaxed and ramrod straight, looking slightly out of place, and he is dressed in his black suit, white button down, a blue tie done askew. And over all that, he's wearing his trench coat, one hand fiddling uncertainly with a button as he peers at Dean.

It's so familiar, so powerfully relieving to see Cas in his trench coat again, that Dean is flooded with a sensation of warmth and light filling his chest and making his breath hitch. And he can't find the words to reply to the silent quest for approval that he can see in Castiel's eyes, but he _does_ have a response as such, and he shows it, feeling his parted mouth stretch in a wide, unabashed grin as he stares happily at Cas.

Cas' lips twitch into a smile of his own, his eyes twinkling and filling with warmth that Dean is happy to be the cause of.

"Hey, Cas, looking great," Sam, much more articulate than the two of them, grins happily at Cas.

"Thank you," Castiel smiles a little. "I thought it would be fitting, since we're posing as FBI agents to see the body."

"Yeah, man, it's great," Dean smiles, walking up to Cas and slinging an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. He can't get the smile off his face, and he doesn't really want to, he realises as he looks at Cas. "Alright, let's hit the road then."

They load up into the Impala, Cas sliding into his usual spot in the backseat. Sometimes, Dean gives him shotgun, because he knows Cas really loves it, and because it has the added bonus of making Sammy sulk. This is one of the times, though, that Cas is content to ride in the back, for whatever reason known only to him.

The engine revs up to life, and Dean sinks into the moment, feeling his baby work. He adjusts his rear-view mirror to catch more of Cas into it, and shoots a sideway glance at Sam to see his brother also relaxed, but ready for action, much like himself – the familiar state of heading out for a hunt, and it feels good.

Things are good. Sam is almost completely healthy. Cas is back in his trench coat and being their self-proclaimed third wheel (and whaddya know, it _does_ add stability), and Dean is friggin eager for the hunt with no celestial/hellish strings attached.

He puts on AC/DC's _Back in Black_.

* * *

The ride isn't long, just over two hours, and they start by checking themselves into a motel (one room, three beds of which one will remain unused) where Dean changes into his FBI suit and goes through the IDs box to fish out a badge for himself and Cas, while Sam grabs a pocketsize notebook and a gun and Ruby's knife, just in case. It's wordlessly understood that Sam will take the knife, while Cas and Dean have the angel blade at their disposal. Dean's mildly curious where Cas is stashing it though, because he doesn't suppose he can pull off that badass sleeve trick anymore.

"I'll text you if I find anything, you do the same," Sam instructs, tucking the gun behind the hem in the back of his jeans.

"Sure," Dean fixes his collar. He's not really hot about wearing the suit, even if he's done it so many times he's completely used to it. He just prefers his comfy, washed out clothes.

"I'll see you later."

"See ya, Sammy."

"Good luck, Sam."

"Alright," Dean grins, turning to face Cas as Sam leaves. "C'mon."

A short drive in the Impala later, they park by the local hospital, and Dean grins once more as he walks around the car to get to Cas as he disembarks. He breathes a small, fond chuckle as he takes in Cas' tie, and smiles fondly all the while as he undoes it, whipping it off, and doing it around Cas' neck again, this time making it face the right side up. Because as much as he likes the trademark backwards way Cas wore it throughout the years, it won't go down all the smoothly when he's trying to pass his angel off as an FBI agent (yet again). Though this time Cas' status as his partner is much more fitting, and Dean can't resist that moronic thought nor the equally moronic grin that sneaks its way onto his face because of it.

Just like he did four years ago, Castiel stands, semi-detached and patient like a stone, his usual frown of focus gracing his face while Dean makes quick work of the tie, and does the shirt's buttons all the way up.

"There," he gives Cas an upward nod of approval. "And remember to keep this the right way up this time," he grins, handing him the badge.

Cas narrows his eyes a little at the jibe, but takes the badge from him and tucks it obediently into the inside pocket of his coat.

"OK.," Dean nods slowly, smoothing the edge of one lapel in between pinched fingers, enjoying the slightly rough slide of thick fabric against his skin. "Ready?"

"Yes," simple, gravelly, confident.

Dean smiles again and can't resist leaning in for a very quick, small kiss. He knows he shouldn't, in case they get spotted by someone from the hospital staff, but he couldn't care less about that.

"Great. Then let's go."

* * *

**There :D Cas is back in trench, and the boys delve into the hunt in the next chapter. I'll try to squeeze in some Destiel there, too :)**

**Please review, I squeal with joy when I see those puppies pop into my inbox :D**


	12. Brothers

**Not much Destiel in this chapter, sorry! But it's mostly case development and I wanted to delve into some Dean-Sam dynamic, because I love it. We'll get more into it when Sam's plans are revealed. Also, darn block strikes again, I don't know when the next chapter will be up, or if it comes out readable, sigh. Darn you, blocks! Worse than hellhounds, and you can't see them coming either.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)**

* * *

**12. Brothers**

Success, Cas had managed to present his badge sunny side up this time, and he seems very pleased with himself about the achievement. He stares at Dean for a moment, half-challengingly seeking approval, and Dean discreetly rolls his eyes before turning to the doctor in charge of the morgue.

"Well, it does seem a little iffy," the man sighs as he leads them down a corridor. "We don't do half-assing here, gentlemen, so I don't think anyone has missed anything. And why is the FBI looking into all this? Doesn't look like murder to me."

"We've made a connection to one of our ongoing investigations," Dean smoothly delivers the vague reply. "So, he was brought in two days ago?" he asks as they enter the autopsy room.

"Correct. Poor guy. Prime of his life, and let me tell you, his lungs and liver were downright mint condition."

Dean briefly makes a face at the phrasing, but Cas doesn't get it.

"Here's your guy," the doctor bends down to unlock one of the metal doors in the wall, and leaves it open. "The organs are in the fridge, labelled. I'm off on my lunch break, agents. Good luck."

"Yeah, thanks."

Cas doesn't grace the pathologist with any response, instead opening the small metal door all the way up, and Dean goes to push the wheeled table up to it, helping Cas pull the dead body on a metal slab out onto the table. Cas busies himself doing whatever-the-hell-he-is doing, examining the guy just by staring at him, while Dean fetches the organs from the fridge, each in a plastic box, and he sets them up on the table, promptly popping each container open.

"So?" he hums at Cas, leaning in to examine the heart. "Anything jumping out at you?"

Cas shakes his head slowly, trademark pensive frown on his features. Yeah, well, Dean didn't really expect him to come up with anything – Cas is pretty bad at the initial stage of investigation, looking at bodies, looking at people's lives, trying to work out possible grudges and secrets and shit. Not really his forte.

Though Cas does reach for the lungs, and begins to methodically scrutinise them through the magnifying glass. They work together in silence for the better part of half an hour, going through the organs, checking out the paperwork of the autopsy ran on the guy, and come up with nothing.

So what gives? Dean doesn't like this. There's always something, some mark, some sign, something that can be missed by regular civilian doctors and pathologists, but what usually pops up under the supernatural angle of inspection. Well, not in this case. For all intents and purposes, this man had no actual right to expire – he was in perfect health, and he's got no markings of any ritual, no demonic stuff, no witchy stuff, no nothing.

Dean frowns, letting out a long breath through his nose, tapping a gloved finger against the stainless steel tabletop, chin dipped onto his chest as he squints at the organs. He raises his eyebrows, glancing up at Cas who is standing opposite from him, on the other side of the table, staring at the body in that intense focus of his.

"OK., huggie bear, what is it?" Dean asks, nodding at him. Cas blinks up, briefly prodded out of his frown-y reverie. "Been staring at him all the time. Did you notice something?"

Castiel frowns again, his eyes travelling back down to the body on the table.

"No… but Dean, there's something wrong with this body," he announces looking up again, eyes and voice serious and deeply convinced. Dean's ears perk up.

"Wrong, how wrong?"

"I don't know," Cas shakes his head, and frowns, looking down in a moment of unfavourable self-evaluation. "But there is something wrong with it. Something _not right_, not as it should be."

Dean stares at the corpse.

"C'mon, buddy, you gotta give me something more here."

"I cant!" Cas doesn't raise his voice, not really, but there's a sharp, hard edge of frustration cutting through his voice, and Dean instantly backs down. They're brushing over the not-an-angel-anymore territory, and he doesn't want that. "There is something missing…" Cas speaks again, frowning with effort.

Cas may be physically human, but his mind is definitely one of an angel. He may not have the mojo, but his brain remains, his thoughts, his unearthly comprehension of things. Dean remembers the fallen Castiel from the sick 2014 vision, the way he instantly recognised him as a not-2014 Dean, as a Dean from the past. He thinks it's because Castiel has a different way of seeing some things, of seeing things that are hidden from humans, because he's billions of years old and has completely different ways of comprehension from the classic human ones.

"OK… you need more time?" Dean tries to be supportive or something.

"Yes, thank you."

"Alright, talk me through it, what's so wrong about this body?"

"It's different," Castiel frowns. "It…" he looks up, frustrated, fishing for words, as he sometimes does when trying to translate some concept into human terms. Dean kinda likes it for some weird reason. "It doesn't look like a dead body normally looks."

"Well, it's clean and not deformed…" jokes Dean, but Cas just scowls at him.

"Something is missing," his huggie bear repeats stubbornly, and Dean nods, trying to wear a comprehending expression.

"Hmm."

Dean gives him time, busying himself with scrutinising the heart one more time, trying to see if perhaps some demonic symbol has been missed. But, shit, this doesn't look good. It's all too clean and too wiped, no traces leading anywhere, not even a fraction of a clue. He's hoping Sammy's trip into the woods delivers some hints.

* * *

Sam frowns, huffing out a breath as his fingers trace raw, jagged marks ripped in the bark of a tall, thick pine. They're definitely not animal marks, even though it's rutting season for a couple of deer and other species, but they don't look familiar in the supernatural terms either. They're not Wendigo (not even a realm of possibility in the first place, because the body was intact) or any other creature he's seen, and he's running through his mental catalogue.

Odd… the marks are imbedded, and continuing up… climbing tracks. And they're right where the body was found.

Sam pulls out his phone, takes a picture and sends it to Dean, and quickly selects him off his speed dial.

"_Hey, Sammy, found anything?_"

"Uh, sort of. There are some weird tracks on the trees," Sam relates, once again running his hand over the marks. "They kinda look like something was climbing up. I sent you a photo."

"_Great._"

"What about on your end?"

"_Uh, not much… I mean, I don't like this, Sam. No signs of any spells or shit, no tattoos or weird-ass birthmarks, nothing, he's completely clean. And Cas keeps saying there's something wrong with the body."_

_"There is_," Sam can hear Castiel's voice a little farther off, but fairly clear, meaning Dean had put the phone on speaker.

"Um, OK., wrong how?" he asks, puzzled. Absentmindedly, he dips a fingertip into one of the holey marks in the tree. A chillingly perfect fit.

_"There's something missing_," Castiel's gravelly voice mumbles over the phone, and Sam can hear the focus in his tone. "_And I think I know what it is… His soul is gone._"

Sam blinks, and he can downright hear the silent shock on the other end of the line as his brother undoubtedly gapes at Cas.

"What?"

"_His soul_," Castiel repeats, almost with a remorseful sigh. "_It has been extracted from his body._"

"_What, you mean like reaped_?" Dean asks.

"_No. It's not been reaped by a Reaper. It's been taken from him, ripped out forcefully._"

"_Wait, how do you know that?_"

"_I can see it. I can't explain it, a body looks different when it doesn't have a soul. Well, of course when Sam was without his soul, I noticed a difference, but the case was complex and I couldn't pinpoint the origin of the difference. It was a unique case, reinforced by Sam's role as Lucifer's vessel._"

"Cas… you realize you're on speaker, right?" Sam rolls his eyes.

"_…Yes, of course I do._"

Alright, never mind then.

"_O-kay, so, dude had his soul sucked out_," Dean speaks energetically to put the awkward moment behind. "_You reckon that killed him_?"

"_Maybe. A body can exist without a soul, but… this body lacks more than just the soul, it lacks the life force-_" he trails off abruptly, and Sam feels a bounce of tension. _"Sam. You mentioned marks on trees._"

"Uh, yeah," Sam glances at the tree he's absently touching, and finds all five of his left hand's fingers tucked into ideally corresponding five holes in one mark.

"_Sam_," Castiel's voice sounds close, rasping right into his ear, like the ex-angel is leaning over the phone. "_Are there five holes in each mark?_"

"Yes…"

"_Sam. Get out of there. Right now. Now!_"

Sam jerks away from the tree, an involuntary shiver running down his spine. He looks around, and walks away at a hurried pace, constantly throwing glances over his shoulder, his back unpleasantly tingling with adrenaline and self-preservation instinct.

"_What is it, Cas, what's out there_?" he can hear a nervous hitch in Dean's voice, and he quickens his pace even more.

"_I think I know what the creature is. I think it's a Bas."_

_"A what now?"_

_"A Bas. It's a creature known to the Chewong people. I will explain in detail when we meet at the motel. And Sam, hurry up. The Bas feed on human souls._"

* * *

Dean's heart is in his throat all the while they bust out of the morgue and head for the Impala parked in front of the hospital, and he keeps the phone pressed to his ear, demanding updates from Sam as he leaves the woods.

"Keep talking to me, man, I wanna hear you," he growls, anger as always seeping out to unevenly cover up panic that whirls in his mind. Beside him, Cas strides with a swagger as he keeps up, trench coat moving in the mild wind.

"_Dude, relax, I'm fine_," Sam's voice oozes with an audible eye-roll, but Dean ignores it.

"Yeah, well, not gonna risk it. You out of the forest yet?"

"_Almost. Seriously, Dean, relax. That Bas thing didn't get me all the time I was there, so I don't think it's gonna be attacking me now._"

"You out yet?"

_"…Yeah. OK., I'm out now. I'll see you back at the motel."_

"OK."

Dean disconnects and slips the phone back into his pocket, then unlocks the Impala and slides into the driver's seat, Cas slipping in beside him from the other side. He releases a tense breath, mildly relieved.

"Dean?" Castiel's voice is probing, and Dean looks at him, a small smile tugging instantly at the corners of his lips as he takes in the trench coat, suit, button-down and tie.

"I'm fine," he reassures, reaching out to run a hand through Cas' hair, enjoying the sensation of the mussed spikes brushing in between his fingers. Castiel nods, but keeps a watchful eye as Dean turns the key in the ignition.

He's a little overprotective, and he's ready to admit that to himself. He's aware of that. But there is one thing that has always defined him, throughout his life, from earliest childhood, into adulthood, only strengthening with time. The first task he was given, the first mission, the first order drilled into his brain.

_Watch out for Sammy_.

It's years of such drive, an existence accommodated to this purpose, and he can't erase that. He doesn't want to erase that. He loves Sammy, always loved him and wanted to take care of him. The order only cemented his determination, honing it into a sense of mission.

At the age of four, he started raising his little brother. He took care of him. He was the goal of Sammy's first steps, when he himself had barely just learned to read. He made sure Sammy ate regularly and went to bed early. He made him put on a wooly hat and mittens in winter. He slept with a loaded shotgun by his bedside, in case something came for Sam. He taught him to write. He praised him when he brought good grades from school, which he always did – his smart, wonderful little brother. Always so much more than Dean. And Dean always was, and is, proud of him.

The memories are bittersweet, they hurt with a peculiar ache that clenches his chest and throat, and tears sting behind his eyes and on the edge of his palate. Because he wishes he could have given Sammy more.

This drive, this sense of purpose in life – _watch out for Sammy_ – is an integral part of him, and he cannot remove it. He doesn't want to. And while he knows he shouldn't want to take care of Sam anymore, because Sam is his own person now, he still wants to watch out for him. He _wants to_, not _has to_ because John had told him to, and he will always want to watch out for Sam, he will always make sure he's alright.

He lost him too many times. He came close to losing him even more. In that church, when Sam was about to complete the trials… that memory is one of the most sickening ones Dean has ever had. It belongs with the sight of his house and mother and safety burning into brutal flames, and with the sadistic, insane, maniacal grin etched harshly across Castiel's face as the Leviathan took hold of him, and then he gathered what will he had and drowned himself, and it belongs with looking at Sam and seeing Lucifer wear his brother's skin. That memory in church… when he'd told Sam that completing the trials would kill him…

_"So?!"_

Dean feels weak as the memory haunts him. The sheer confusion, shocked puzzlement in Sam's goal-blinded eyes, the way it was unfathomable to him why his death would _even be a bother_. Dean cannot erase that moment, no matter how hard he tries. And no matter what he did later, no matter what he does still, Sam still _had said that_. He had driven Sam to that conclusion where his life was completely beyond factoring into any equation.

His little brother. Dean has no idea how to make Sam see how wrong he was in that church.

A tender touch swipes across his cheek, smearing something warm and wet across his skin, and he jolts, the steering wheel twisting a little in his grip, and he only then remembers about Castiel.

The blue eyes are looking at him with pained concern, seeking into his own, probing, searching for the source of the problem so he can help. He's wearing his trench coat, sitting there, worried, silent, wishing to help, but unfamiliar with a simple 'how'.

And it overfills Dean with relief, to see Castiel like this, because this is his Cas, and he's not going anywhere.

So he pulls over at the side of the road, and wraps his arms around Castiel, curling his fingers into the familiar texture of the trench coat, buries his face in Cas' shoulder, closes his eyes, and breathes in the fresh scent of a hovering storm. Castiel's arms encircle him in an embrace, one hand slowly soothing down his back, until it wanders up into his hair, slowly carding through the short strands, and Dean sighs, his lungs still tight despite the consolation.

"You're… a good brother, Dean," Cas' gravelly voice murmurs softly into his ear, brushing a soft kiss over it.

It's a little crude and simple, but it's of earth-shattering value to come from Castiel, whose experience in brothers is incomparable, and who doesn't lie to Dean. Not like this, not when he talks about Dean. And Dean's heart clenches and soars at the same time, and he cries a little more, because Castiel knows him so wholly and completely that he still sees his thoughts even if he cannot read minds anymore.

Dean holds on for a little while longer. Because Cas is here, and he's not going anywhere.

* * *

Castiel is by no means accustomed to fleeing. He was honed a soldier, a warrior of Heaven, charging in battle, treading cautiously in strategies, making circles in a spiral focusing on a problem, but the motion of his actions was almost always directed forward. It had bent his predispositions to flee from his siblings, and then even worse, to flee from Dean and Sam as well, holding the Angel Tablet within himself. And even those were strategies, designed to ultimately lead him forward – towards a goal laid out further ahead, which could not be attained by following a direct line onward.

Now is one of the very rare instances in his existence that he fights an overwhelming need to flee.

He wants forcefully to shepherd the Winchesters into the Impala and leave, return to the bunker, leave this case behind. It's an urge to protect something infinitely precious that he has with him, and which is now in danger, a state he cannot stand idly.

The Bas feed on human souls, their life force. Dean's soul is the purest he's ever encountered across millennia, bright, shining, strong, breathtaking. Wonderful.

And for the Bas it is an absolute delicacy like no other.

He wants Dean out of here, away from this case, he wants to take him and flee, remove him from harm's way. For a moment he wants to hold him in his grace, wrap his wings around him, but he cannot anymore… but it doesn't bring an onset of cold, gripping pain anymore, like it used to. There is some regret, yes… but he is happy with his human life. Now he simply feels uneasy without any other means than human, to protect Dean.

"So what's the deal, what is this Bas thing?" Dean asks as they arrive to the motel room, Sam already there due to their delay, since they stopped for a long moment on their way here.

Castiel breathes out a reluctant sigh through his nose, looking at his beloved perched on a chair, beer in hand, Sam's hesitant eyes peering at him with some worry. Dean is ready for challenge and action as always, never questioning the idea of endangering his life to save others, unaware of his sacrifices.

"The Bas are best known to the Chewong people," Castiel explains, still reluctant, and slowly makes his way over to the table, resting slightly back against the side that Dean is facing. "They are native to Malaysia. The Bas feed on _ruwai_ – it translates roughly as soul, but a 'life force' would be a more fitting term, because they kill their victims by sucking it out of them. The Bas live in trees," he looks towards Sam. "They climb down to hunt. They look like… large apes, hairy, with two pairs of eyes, one of them in the back of the head."

"Yikes," Dean makes a face. "Kinda hard to sneak up on the sons of bitches, huh?"

"Very," Castiel drawls.

"OK. I'm not asking how they got there, cause shit travels, but how do we gank them?"

Castiel sighs again, pressing his lips slightly together for a moment.

"I don't know," he admits, and the brothers blink at him in surprise. "I don't know much about them," he admits wryly with a shrug. "I think we should head back home and do some research."

"Whoa, whoa, wait," Dean lifts his beer bottle in a halting gesture. "We can't just go, what if they get someone else?"

"They only feed once in a while. One _ruwai_ is enough to sustain a pair for days, even weeks."

"But… how come this place never had any other suspicious deaths like that?" Sam raises a question. "If the Bas are here, they must have fed in the past, right?"

Castiel shrugs once more.

"They might have only just arrived here. And apart from that, they also tend to prey on the elderly or the dying, which makes their presence much harder to detect. But they like strong, rich _ruwai_," his eyes wander over to Dean, unease tugging at his core. "That's when they hunt."

"Right, so we got like a week or ten days before their stomachs growl again?" Dean asks.

"Something like that."

"Right…" Dean nods, eyes drifting away from Castiel's as he frowns in focus, and Castiel knows his beloved is strategizing, composing a course of action, trying to pinpoint the most efficient route to take. "So I'm thinking we go back to the morgue, ask the guy if they've ever had some sudden deaths or unexpected illnesses, and ask that woman who called Garth about the whole thing, ask her if she's seen anything like it before in this town. Then we go back to the Batcave, research, find a way to gank those things, and come back here."

"I agree," Castiel nods, eager to extract Dean from this town. He wants to be home, with Dean secure in the bunker.

"OK., great, grab your badge and we're going," Dean smiles, tapping Castiel's shoulder with his beer bottle, and finishes the drink.

"Uh, can you go alone, Dean?" Sam asks from his spot, looking uncertain. "I kinda want Cas to come with me, he knows more about those Bas things, so we can question the girl better."

Dean hesitates, and so does Castiel. Naturally, he wants to help Sam and sees the logic of his point, but his instinct screams to protect Dean, to stay with him at all times and ensure his safety. Dean's green eyes catch his, and they share a long look, a quiet thrum of wordless communication spanning between them.

"OK., I guess… what do you think, Cas?" Dean consents, and Castiel releases a half-defeated breath.

"I… think it's optimal," he replies vaguely. He's not pleased with the outcome, but he knows it's efficient. Dean frowns minimally, eyeing him carefully in attempts to read out the source of his unease, but Castiel turns to look at Sam, nodding at him.

"Good. See you soon, Dean," Sam raises a hand at Dean, and heads to the door.

"Be careful, Dean," Castiel remarks quietly, pleading his beloved with his eyes, and Dean appears puzzled, but he nods.

"Yeah… yeah, you too, Cas."

* * *

Sam quickly locates the house where the girl lives, and rings the doorbell. Cas is standing beside him, customary pensive look on his face, and he still looks every bit the angel he was all those years. Deceptively human, but something _more_, and Sam thinks it's because he still is _more_ – his humanity is physical, Castiel's mind remains as it was, encompassing all of the universe. Sam sometimes marvels at that.

The girl is really pretty, twenty five or so, and she has an underlying sense of energy – tough one, Sam thinks with a small smile, and figures she kinda has to be, to have witnessed the supernatural and just carried on with her life.

"Yes?"

"Uh, hi, are you Alice Davis?" Sam asks.

"Yes. Oh, you must be Dean and Sam Winchester, Garth said you might pop by," her eyes brighten up with recognition.

"Ah, close," Sam says, and cannot resist an opportunity. "I'm Sam, and this is my brother in law, Castiel," he struggles to keep a shark grin from slipping onto his face, well aware that Cas has turned his head to side and is staring at him. He's also well aware that whatever he says now, will eventually find it's way to Dean, so he decides to milk it for all it's worth.

"Oh," the girl – Alice – smiles. "Didn't know you guys had a sister."

"We don't," Sam says simply, deciding to leave the brainwork up to her. "Dean's busy right now, so it's just the two of us. We wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the case you gave Garth…"

"Oh, sure, come in," she smiles, opens the door wider, and leads them into a small living room. "Sorry about the mess, my sister dumped my nieces on me. So, should I be getting them out of here? Do you guys know what this thing was? Here, have a sit."

They sit on a sofa, Cas finally looking away from Sam, and Sam bites on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning. Dean is gonna flip when he hears this one…

"Well, I recommend you maybe go away for the week, or something?" Sam suggests. "We've identified the creature, it… uh, it kinda feeds on human souls?" he supplies, watching the girl's eyes grow wide. "They feed once a week, even rarer. But just to be on the safe side, you might want to leave, or at least avoid the forest, because that's where they live. And I wanted to ask you – has anything like this happened here before? Someone dying just like that, unexpectedly?"

The girl frowns, thinking.

"No… not really. I don't remember anything like that. I heard a story or two, but that's about things that happened years ago. I can't tell you the names or anything – it was just things I overheard in line at the shop, you know, things like that."

"It may as well be a case of someone suddenly falling ill and dying," Castiel pipes in.

"Well, that's kinda hard to spot, right? I mean, I don't know when a heart attack is real and when it's supernatural…"

"Did anything ever happen in the forest?" Cas probes on.

"I don't know. Sorry. I wasn't born here, I moved here with my family when I was sixteen."

"Have you ever seen some… unusual markings on trees in the town?" Cas asks, leaning forward a little, gaze intense. "Each mark consist of five holes, and they lead climbing up the tree trunk."

"Like this," Sam flips out his phone and showcases the picture he'd taken earlier.

"No. No, I haven't. It would be bad, yeah?"

"Yes," Castiel nods slowly, solemnly, almost comically. "That would be very bad."

"Well, I'll keep a lookout."

They ask her a couple more questions, but don't walk away with much useful information. As they leave, Sam once more advises her to take her nieces away for a couple of days, just in case, and it looks like she's going to take that advice.

Outside the house, Castiel turns to Sam, stopping at the corner of the street, and Sam thinks he might address the whole brother in law thing, but the idea instantly evaporates from his head along with all the fun, when he sees the look on Cas' face.

"Sam. We need to convince Dean to stay away from this case."

"What? Why?" Sam frowns, alert instantly sparking through his system. Castiel gives a small, displeased sigh.

"The Bas feed on _ruwai_, the richer and stronger, the better. Dean's soul and life force are extremely strong, bright and tantalizing," Castiel's voice is filled with light and love, and Sam holds back a fond smile, wondering if Castiel realizes how much of his passion for Dean is shining through his words. "They are warm, shining and powerful, and to the Bas they will be an equivalent of great delicacy. They will want to hunt him and consume his _ruwai_ even if they'd just fed," the light in his eyes, brought by speaking about Dean, dims slightly as worry etches on his face. "They will pursue him. We need to find a way to keep Dean safe."

Sam nods, even if both of them know that's not gonna be easy.

* * *

**Obviously, nothing's gonna keep Dean from working that case. It should be wrapped up in the next chapter, too, whenever that comes out.**

**Next chapter - some dramatic hunting and hopefully plenty of Destiel :)**

**I hope you enjoyed, and please review! Those balls of pink fluffy goodness always motivate me to write :)**


	13. A stray ship and its beacon

**I'm horribly sorry for the delay... I haven't been so much struck with a block as I was steamrolled flat by it. I hope this chapter is readable, and I'm sorry there isn't much fluff there... Stay with me, next chapter will have much more fluff :D**

**So here it is, the finale of the Bas case... and yes, it's really hard to find _anything_ about them online. Basically all my info about them comes from one of my mythology books.**

**Enjoy and review :)**

* * *

**13. A stray ship and its beacon**

Just as Castiel had expected, Dean did not agree to step back from the hunt.

When his beloved learned of how delectable his soul and life force would be to the Bas, he was surprised and concerned for only a fleeting moment, before putting on an expression of confidence, and announcing that in this case, they have an infallible bait to lure out the Bas.

Castiel does not like the idea at all.

There had been a fight over the issue of Dean's safety on the hunt, once they arrived back to the Batcave. Dean protested against being excluded from the hunt, Castiel persisted on the course of action. Dean yelled. Castiel reverted to cold calm. They were at odds with each other for three hours and forty two minutes precisely, after which the argument was ended with highly passionate reconciliatory lovemaking. Make up sex is something they both enjoy very much, to the point where occasionally they would pick small, meaningless fights, just to be able to make up immediately and with heat.

Castiel enjoys those instances very thoroughly.

Dean smiles at him from above, pulling away from leaving soft, lingering kisses over his throat and chest as he lies on top of him, having just coaxed him awake. Castiel is gazing up into Dean's face, watching the play of dim light across his features, his beautiful green eyes still slightly touched with sleep, but already sparkling vividly, crinkled up a little in a wide smile that stretches itself across his face, and Castiel reaches up, running a hand through Dean's hair and cupping his cheek. Dean chuckles quietly and leans into the touch, and Castiel's heart feels like it's swelling with something bright at the sight of happiness in Dean's eyes, knowing that he is the cause of it.

"You're beautiful," Castiel tells him quietly.

A blush spreads across Dean's freckled cheeks, but he quickly reins in his shyness, and flashes Castiel a seductive grin.

"You're very hot yourself."

Castiel allows a small hint of a smile to tug at his lips.

"I don't just mean your looks, Dean," he murmurs, rubbing a thumb over Dean's cheekbone, because it's something his beloved often does to him, and he enjoys it. "I remember your soul… most vividly," he explains, and can see Dean tense above him, warm green eyes fleeing away from his for a moment. "It's beautiful, Dean. The purest and warmest and brightest I've ever seen," he speaks, and Dean shifts uneasily, causing his heart to clench once more, but this time with remorse – Dean never feels comfortable listening to a truthful praise, never believes his worth, never accepts to see his own value… "Dean," Castiel prompts him, and his beloved turns to look at him, finally meeting his eyes. "You _are_ beautiful. So very much. And... you have to understand… if we go on that hunt, you will be the one the Bas will target, without any doubt. They will choose you, they will go after you, they will want you. They won't give me or Sam a second glance if you're with us, we wouldn't even be able to distract them."

Dean's gaze never leaves his now, and it's calm, strong and softly determined.

"I know that, Cas, you told me," Dean whispers, and leans in to kiss him, and Castiel's eyes flutter closed as he lingers in that brief second when the warm, soft lips press against his own, sending a tight, delectable feeling into his stomach. Dean pulls away, and Castiel looks at him, taking in the soothingly familiar face, one he could recreate to perfection from memory. "But that's kinda what we do, isn't it?" Dean asks with a small, crooked smile. "We're saving people, hunting things. I didn't want you hunting with me and Sam… I mean, I _wanted_ you to hunt with us, but I didn't want you in danger, especially so soon…" he trails off, and Castiel knows that he has his newly acquired humanity in mind. "But you did it anyway, you stubborn son of a bitch," Dean's smile broadens a little, love in his eyes warming Castiel's heart. "And you're really damn good, by the way. We just do this. And you did that too, you went right where you knew something would wanna kill you – demons, angels, anything – and you did it anyway."

Castiel sighs, knowing it's true, and knowing that Dean has already decided to go, that he never even _hesitated_ after learning that he will be the prime target. And, it's one of all those things that make his soul so very bright, Castiel thinks with a fond smile, a wave of love sweeping over him. He slips his hand to the back of Dean's neck, and pulls him into a kiss, his beloved eagerly complying. He runs a tongue over Dean's lower lip, collecting that unique taste, and deepens the kiss as Dean opens his mouth up for him, tongues sliding languidly together.

They pull slowly away, Dean gently nipping on Castiel's lower lip as he retreats, something that Castiel always enjoys. Dean then ducks his head and goes on to pepper a few playful kisses over Castiel's chest, and Castiel lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, relishing the feeling of warm lips and ghosting breath over his skin.

"We're just gonna have to find a good way to gank the sons of bitches, and then we're gonna get back home, drink beer and watch _Raiders of the lost Ark_, cause you have to watch it, man," Dean grins into his skin, and Castiel chuckles in response, pulling him back up into another kiss, much briefer this time.

"I know, beloved," he smiles, watching another blush dust Dean's cheeks. He knows that Dean likes it when he calls him that, but it also always perplexes him a little. Which goes very well with one of Castiel's recent hobbies – making Dean blush.

So now he grins broader, and Dean playfully nudges him to stop, the red tinge on his cheeks only intensifying, causing his freckles to disappear for a moment.

"Shut up," Dean grumbles, but the love and happiness in his eyes shine like a beacon, and like a stray ship, Castiel is drawn to it.

Always.

* * *

"Oh, dammit, I hate the internet!"

Sam, of course, doesn't even grace him with a look, drowning in some old volume, but Cas loyally looks up from his own book, blue eyes searching Dean's, silently asking what is wrong. Dean can always trust Cas to get what's important.

"I type in 'how to kill Bas', and I get like four hundred thousand results how to kill a bass, you know, as in fish!" Dean angrily throws his hands up. "What the hell!"

"Do you have any autocorrect on?" his bitch of a brother turns a page in his book.

"No, I don't, bitch. Why don't you do the online, and I'll hit the books."

"I don't think the change of a person will have any effect on the results of research," Castiel muses. "Besides, the Bas are very badly known, from what I gather. Perhaps staying strictly with books will be better this time," with a warm, inviting look in his eyes, he slides one of the unopened books towards Dean (_Malaysian myths and beliefs_, author unknown, as often the case in Men of Letters' epic library).

Dean looks at Cas, the mussed hair, the soft flannel tee (with a very cool iron-on image of a mechanical bee, very 'steampunk', or whatever Sam meant when he'd said it), the open expression on his face, and he looks so very, very helpful that Dean feels a downright girly flutter in his stomach. Not butterflies. No. Something manly. Uuuh, bees? Yeah. He's got bees in his stomach.

So he abandons the malicious internet and slides closer to Cas, flipping the large, old book open. Time ticks by in quietness. Sam is poring over some huge book about soul-suckers, another book about Malaysian rituals and one about ape shapes in supernatural creatures waiting by his elbow. Cas is reading something in Arabic, and Dean has no idea in heck what his book is about, but he likes the way Cas is focused, reading effortlessly, his eyes sliding over the text from right to left, and makes an occasional note on a margin. Dean doesn't exactly know why, because he's the only one in their company who can read the actual book in the first place, but he doesn't bother his angel.

Dean liberally skips the introduction pages in the book, and glances at the table of contents to see if he can spy something in there that would help him cut corners in his research. No such luck, so he goes to the first chapter, scooting a little bit closer to Cas, because what the hell, he's allowed to do stuff like that, dammit.

Castiel's body responds almost absentmindedly by leaning into his, and they sit, warming each other's sides. Cas keeps on reading, making a quick note here and there, and the pencil continuously finds its way to his mouth. He taps it on his lips slowly, and every now and then his mouth opens a little way, teeth scraping a little over the eraser.

Dean's still on page one of chapter one, and he tries to be determined and get on with his reading, because he's being friggin ridiculous here, ogling Cas while the other two are buried up to their ears in research. But then he glances at Cas again, and sees his tongue glimpse in between his teeth, touching the eraser as Cas drowns in focus, and Dean is fucking gone.

He shifts in his chair, because he's beginning to get a boner, and he seriously needs to get himself under control. Last night's make-up sex was crazy hot, and it was the kind of hot that doesn't really quench all desire, just makes it come back in full force sometime later. And of course, what better time than research time? Castiel's teeth are nibbling on the eraser, and at this rate Dean's gonna have to take a freezing cold shower if he doesn't want to jump his angel right in front of Sammy.

Determinedly, he stares at the book and tries to force his eyes to move over the letters. A few long seconds later, he's read one word. Good, it's a start.

Nearby, Sam releases a long, troubled sigh, puffing out his cheeks, and that helps ground Dean a little bit more. Sam's bitchface is a definite mood killer, and his brother is currently shooting his book a very someone-just-pissed-in-my-cereal look. Dean tries to move on with his reading.

Three hours later, and they still haven't found anything. Cas wasn't joking when he said the Bas aren't well known – hardly any book mentions them at all, and Dean's volume on Malaysian myths talks about them a lot, but it's mostly the tale, it doesn't really go into hunt-helpful details.

"Check it out, it's got pictures," he perks up a little as he turns another page. "Yikes. That's not pretty."

It's by no means the grossest creature he's encountered, but there's just something seriously disturbing about a disproportional ape with eyes in the back of its head. Sam gets up from his chair and moves to peer over Dean's shoulder, while Cas just leans in closer and inspects the image, more out of some weird courteous interest than actual need, since Dean's gathered he's seen the creatures in the past.

"Look, they've got claws," Sam points out, tapping a finger onto the picture. "They fit the marks on the trees."

That, and they look lethal. Dean groans inwardly. As if the eyes in the back of the head and the soul-sucking ability weren't enough to make those bitches hard to gank.

"I had a mention about those claws in my book, said they're very strong but not used during attacks," Sam elaborates.

"Hmm…" Dean absentmindedly nuzzles Cas' temple, taking advantage of the proximity. "What about defense?" he asks, because being a hunter means being a glass-half-empty kind of person if you wanna stay alive.

"Yeah, they didn't really cover that…" Sam sighs, dragging himself back over to his spot at the table, and Dean hums quietly with a small sneer, and huddles a bit closer still into Castiel.

It's funny how he never really was into physical contact, but with Cas it's different. They don't do any handholding or gooey crap like that, but he likes to be close to Cas, to feel him close, and he doesn't have any barriers against sharing the personal space at random moments. It probably stems a lot from Castiel's space invader routine, always standing too close to Dean from the very beginning, and soon – sooner than Dean would admit – Dean got used to it. He finds comfort in Castiel's closeness, and because of all that affection he has for him, all this love, and because of how Cas knows him so wholly and completely, it only feels natural to have him close.

And there are also moments when Dean wants this closeness, a need tugging at him at completely random moments, and there is some unspeakable comfort and silent, dim happiness in the knowledge that Cas will never turn him away, and will always provide Dean with this closeness if he wants it. And the same goes the other way around – there are times when Cas seeks out the contact, shuffling into Dean, and Dean reads his silent language so well that he always knows what is it that Cas wants from him – a touch, a hug, a kiss, anything.

He never really was into cuddling either, but the amount of evidence that Cas has to the contrary, is impressive. He prefers to cuddle when it's just the two of them, but sometimes he'll go for it when Sam is in the room, because what the hell! He's home, he's allowed some cuddling with his boyfriend, dammit. And Sam can just stow that shit-eating grin that he gets often when he catches the two of them snuggled up on the sofa or somewhere else.

So yeah, back to research…

Dean rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to zero in on the task at hand. The creepy Bas stares at him from the book, turned back, but the extra set of eyes peers out. Dean turns the page and ploughs on through the text, scanning the lines at an express pace, searching for keywords and phrases – kill, destroy, chase off, defeat, defend, soul, _ruwai_, weapon… Unfortunately, keywords concerning the annihilation of the suckers don't really pop up.

The three chapters about Bas end, and the only thing he's got, is that the Bas are pretty much considered as part of nature in the traditional Chewong beliefs. Nothing about how to gank them or fend them off, just that fires were lit to keep them at bay. He skims through the rest of the book, eyes tuned for the word Bas, but it comes up only a couple of times and doesn't yield any additional information.

Reluctantly, he reaches for another book.

Somewhere along the way they make quick lunch – just sandwiches for Dean and Cas (ham for Dean, honey for Cas, and Dean smiles, watching him manoeuvre his bread pieces so as not to let honey drip through the pores), while Sam naturally makes himself one of those salads. Sometimes Dean wonders how is it physically and biologically possible to go just on leaves and occasional vegetable. This just isn't right.

Sam bitches a little about Dean and Cas eating over books ("Those are priceless volumes, guys! You're dropping crumbs and stuff all over them!"), and Dean goes back to his laptop for a moment, once his stomach is moderately filled. As he scans through another failed search about the Bas, Kevin pops up on Skype, video-calling him.

"Hey, Kev, what's up?" Dean nods a greeting.

"_Hi. Pretty good, actually,_" the kid says, and he does look better, Dean thinks. No rings under his eyes and much less bitter defeat in his gaze, which is good. "_I'm working on a text that's giving me some trouble, and I've been wondering, can you get Castiel on the line for me?_"

"Uh, sure…" Dean glances sideways at his angel who sits, mouth stuffed a little way as he'd stopped chewing for a moment, head tipped in interest, blue eyes wide. "Just make it quick, we're in the middle of something here…"

"_Oh, ew!_" Kevin scrunches up his nose with disgust.

"I meant _research_, dude!" Dean growls, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Nearby, Sam barks out a laugh. "Cas, c'mere and say 'hi' to the Prophet of the lord," Dean beckons with his head, and Cas scoots over closer, fitting into the camera's range as he swallows his mouthful of bread and honey.

"Hello, Kevin."

"_Hi. Listen, I've got trouble with a text I'm translating for Garth, so I thought, hey, you speak pretty much every language ever made, or at least that's what Dean brags about you, so can you help me?_"

"Of course. What is your problem?"

"_Well, this_," on the screen, Kevin holds up some piece of carved bone to the camera, obliterating his face from view. Cas frowns in focus for a moment, his eyes scanning over the slightly pixellated symbols.

"This is avestan," he finally pronounces, taking another bite of his honey sandwich. "Though the text is _not_ a fragment of the Avesta."

"_Yeah, apparently… so, this line here…_" Kevin flips over the bone for a moment to locate the offending spot and taps a finger over it, turning the text back to face the camera. "_It's weird and I can't really read it, I mean I get just a couple of letters, and that's all. Can you at least get me kick-started_?"

Dean sort of waits for an 'I can't kick you over an internet connection' moment, but it doesn't come. Cas is leaning a bit closer to the screen, squinting into the letters with his trademark focus look on, slowly chewing on another bite of his sandwich.

"And the creature shuns the light, for its core is that of darkness," he reads, easy and fluent. "And it feeds in autumn, and vanishes upon the day of the Sun's victory over night eternal," he pauses, electric blue eyes scanning through the text until Kevin flips the bone over again, excitedly scribbling something in a notebook. "It appears to be woven with Zoroastrian beliefs, consistently with the use of the avestan alphabet."

Whatever the hell that means, Sam gets a spasm of nerdy joy and trots over to Cas, eyes all eager, and Dean knows that if Kevin was here, Sam would be reverently groping the carved bone right now.

"_OK., thanks, Castiel, big help_," Kevin grins gratefully into the camera.

"You're welcome. I'd translate the entire text for you, but unfortunately we're in the middle of our own research."

"_Yeah, sure. Thanks. See you guys later_."

With that, the Prophet logs out, leaving the three of them to get back to their books, which Dean does with no small amount of reluctance. Castiel's hand wanders over to his thigh, rubbing softly in what is probably meant to be sheer comfort, but apart from said comfort it also provides Dean with some blood going south. Still, he appreciates the thought, and leans against Cas to show him that.

An hour later they've gone through the last of their books that mention the Chewong people of Malaysia (and seriously, someone should do a big-ass cross-reference thing in this library, awesome as it is. Probably Sam, the kid likes stuff like that), and Dean puffs out an angry sigh.

"Tell me one of you has found something, but for inexplicable reasons kept it to himself for the last hour," he growls, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes.

A puzzled frown crosses over Cas' face, and there's the head tilt.

"Why would either Sam or me do something like that?"

Dean just gives a tired half-smirk, shaking his head, and leans in to brush a kiss against Cas' cheekbone.

"Well, I didn't really find anything, but I, uh… I think I've got an idea," Sam's got his clever focus face on, tinged with uncertainty shining in big puppy eyes as he looks up from his book at Dean and Castiel. He's never really got just one emotion on his face, there's always several.

"OK., hit me," Dean raises his eyebrows, urging Sammy further when the kid stays silent, a phrase 'pending approval' almost flashing on and off in his eyes.

"Right. So, the main problem is, the Chewong people consider the Bas to be a natural part of their lives, it's like the order of things for them. Their traditions accept the supernatural as, well, natural."

"Well, good for them. And?" Dean's not really into the whole wannabe-professor thing Sam unfurls whenever he has to explain some conclusion he's made.

"I think that's the reason there isn't any info on how to kill them," Sam explains. "Cause they're not meant to be killed, they're part of the natural order. But I kept finding mentions about how the people light fire to keep them at bay, you know, scare them off, so I think fire might be it."

"So you're saying we have to torch them?"

"Yeah. I mean, the fire thing was constantly repeated, they're scared of fire."

"Huh," Dean's encountered fire mentions in his own books as well, and mentally runs over them again, or at least what he remembers of them. "What do you think?" he nudges Cas a little.

"I think Sam is right. Fire will be our best chance," Cas proclaims, glancing at Sam, his unearthly eyes sliding back to Dean and settling on him with reluctance and unease.

And Dean knows Cas is still not okay with him going up against soul-suckers.

* * *

Dean watches Cas tie his Converse sneakers (which he looks ridiculously good in). Winter is coming – Cas will need winter boots, a winter jacket, preferably also a warm woolly hat… Dean's lips twitch in a small smirk, because somehow, already right now, he knows Cas will absolutely refuse to wear the hat.

It's a short drive back to the town, but they don't stop in it, just drive into the small forest where the victim was attacked. They lock up the Impala and leave it parked before a wooden barrier marking the dead end of a forest road, and they make the rest of the way on foot, each armed with a homemade flamethrower, plus Cas has his angel blade, as always, since this thing is universe's most lethal weapon and all that, works on basically everything. Even if it doesn't kill, it definitely can sting like a bitch. Dean sort of wonders where Cas carries it, since he can't exactly pull of that sleeve trick anymore. Dean thinks.

They also have a bag of sand stashed in the trunk of the Impala, per Cas' insistence that they might need it in order to put out any fire they might accidentally start. Because of course Cas would have to be an environmentally-friendly hunter, and Dean can't help but chuckle a little to himself at the caring seriousness with which Cas approaches that subject.

Sam is walking first, leading them down the same path he's followed before, and Cas trails behind Dean who is sandwiched protectively between the two, an arrangement settled by popular vote two to one. He doesn't really like it, he's used to going ahead and keeping an eye on both his brother and angel, but Cas got that rock-crushing look in his eye, all forceful pressure like a friggin steamroller, so Dean had obeyed, albeit grudgingly.

Soon they reach the small clearing where Sam had found the tracks, and Dean curiously inspects the markings on the trees, Cas breathing down his neck all the time. Nothing Dean's not used to, really. Again, there's comfort in Castiel's presence and closeness, an anchoring sensation that Dean enjoys, even if right now the reason for it makes him roll his eyes a little.

"D'you think they're up in those trees now?" he asks Cas, craning his neck to peer up into the crown. Some of the leaves are turning yellow and red by now.

"It's possible," comes the vague response.

Castiel's voice is taut, tinged with wariness and vigilance, his blue eyes hard as they sharply scan the surroundings, his gaze slipping in between the trees and scrutinising the bushes. Sam isn't taking any chances, the flamethrower poised and ready, hand on the handle – his is made out of an expired fire extinguisher (oh, the irony) given a new purpose.

Dean moves to examine the surrounding trees, looking for fresher tracks. Castiel follows him like a shadow, and he can feel his watchful gaze sweep over him as it traces the surroundings.

Suddenly, Cas holds him by the shoulder, halting him – his touch is steady and calm, but firm, and Dean turns around to look at him.

"Cas? What is it, man?"

The large blue eyes glance at him, and a finger warningly makes its way up to Castiel's lips in a shushing gesture. Beside them, Sam tenses and backs away, rejoining them and shielding Dean from the other side.

"Cas?" Dean tries again, quieter this time.

"Listen," damn his angel and his enigmatic replies.

"Listen to _what_?" Dean actively tries not to snap.

"The forest went silent."

Dean looks around, involuntarily creeped out a little. Also, Cas is right – even though the birds have long since gone silent (it's October, after all), the forest around them is more silent than it was only moments ago. It's not tranquillity, it's taut, thick suspense, a held breath. And in Dean's experience, it hardly ever precedes anything good.

"I think there's only one Bas," he murmurs, as he looks at the tracks. "There are two sets of marks, but this one is older… so we might actually have only one son of a bitch on our hands."

"That would be an uncharacteristic bout of good luck," Cas comments, perhaps a little dryly.

Before either Dean or Sam can say anything, a thunderous crash of snapping wood crackles above their heads, and a large shape plummets to the ground, hitting the soil with a dull thud and a roar.

"Whoa!" Sam screams, backing up against Dean, shielding him from view, flamethrower poised and ready, while Cas presses Dean back against the tree.

The Bas is huge. Seven feet and change tall, hairy and the colour of earth, it straightens up for a moment, before dropping back to its default position, supporting its weight on knuckles, nostrils flaring as it sniffs at the air. It looks like an ape, only much larger, its eyes bright yellow, and as it growls, two rows of sharp, needle-like teeth are revealed, one of the front limbs dragging slowly along the ground, large, thick and sharp claws leaving marks in the dry soil.

Sam opens fire, releasing the flames, and the Bas pounces backwards, and then it moves fast, goddamn fast, almost like a Wendigo, ripping a startled yell out of Sam who attempts to follow it with his fire.

"Dean!" Castiel cries out when Dean tries to help Sam, and he pushes Dean back, shielding him from the Bas and opening fire straight in its face just as it leaps to pounce.

The Bas flails in the air, trying to shift its trajectory, but Dean knows it won't be enough, it will still crash into them… He launches at Cas, pushing him aside, and the Bas hurls through the air, a limb catching on Dean's shoulder, the impact, combined with his already lost balance, sending him tumbling backwards onto the ground.

He hits the soil with a dull thud, his grip on the flamethrower slipping, and he scrambles for it, seeing the large, blurry shape in his peripheral vision. Beside him, Cas gets up as well, and sweeps his own weapon across the ground, leaving an arch of flames briefly flickering on the fallen leaves, needles and twigs.

The Bas emits a panther-like scream and scurries away from the fire, but its yellow eyes are furious, and Dean knows that now they've pissed the thing off. On the upside, it at least looks like the Bas really cannot touch fire, or will combust or something. The creature runs up a tree, apparently deciding to re-strategize, and Dean glances at Cas to see him looking to the ground for a quick moment, where an almost-circle of fire is dying down.

"I'm finding this almost ironic," he informs, and Dean huffs out a brief chuckle, because he knows what Cas means – that for once, he would like to be inside a fire circle.

Sam doesn't speak Cas as well as Dean does, so he's a bit puzzled by the remark, but he's already with them, backing into Dean as they all crane their heads back to trace the Bas lurking in the branches. The huge ape looks back, and Dean feels an unpleasant jolt go through his body as another pair of hungry yellow eyes peer at him from the back of its neck.

"Oh, man, that's creepy," he notes.

"We better come up with something quick, this thing is fast, we can't let it get away from us," Sam replies.

"Hey, you heard Cas, as long as I'm here, this thing is gonna want to snack on me," come to think of it, Dean might have chosen a better wording to calm his companions, because they both give him less than appreciative looks.

The Bas scurries down the tree and pounces from halfway down the trunk, mouth wide open and showing sets of sharp, gruesome teeth. It lands on the ground and speeds towards them again, heading straight at them, a tactic many predators use to panic a herd, and that's one creepy thought in Dean's mind.

He throws some flames at the Bas, causing it to roar again and change the course as it tries for another angle. Its eyes are hungry, starving, fixated on Dean, and it makes him a little uneasy, a fact he's not going to admit to Sam or Cas. He can almost feel an unpleasant twitch inside his chest, just under his throat, and he knows it's just his imagination and not really his soul sensing a threat.

It turns out that it's pretty damn hard to trap a creature that's got an extra pair of eyes blinking out the back of its neck. Having figured out a shoddy teamwork pattern, they've tried to shepherd the Bas somehow to trap it and torch it, but the son of a bitch keeps escaping, either up a tree or just trying to charge one of them.

Dean's uncomfortably reminded of that sick _corrida_ shit.

The added difficulty is the fact that they constantly need to use their flamethrowers in order to keep the Bas away, which means soon they're all running low. Cas limits himself on his use of the fire, and switches mostly to his angel blade, and the Bas seems to instinctively sense that this weapon is powerful enough to harm it, because it tries to stay out of its way almost as much as it tries to stay out of the flames' reach.

Still, the Bas keeps smelling the air, eyes fixed on Dean as it tries to find new ways of tackling him, and while it's not the first time Dean has played bait or danced around with something wanting to gut him, it's really becoming unnerving. Maybe because the stakes are so much higher and so much more terrifying, really… he has been ripped apart by Hellhounds, but somehow he thinks having his soul devoured straight from his body, is even worse. And irreversible.

It doesn't stop him, far from it, it just serves to make him more determined to be done with this case, but as their supplies of fire run low, he's getting a little uneasy.

The Bas charges again, and Sam tries to manoeuvre it aside, shooting flames at it, but suddenly he runs out of amo.

"Sam!" Dean screams in horror, lunging forward to his brother, but the Bas is quicker, swinging an arm and hitting Sammy with a powerful backhand that sends him flying through the air and tumbling onto the ground.

The instinct to protect Sam is stronger than anything, and he momentarily forgets that even though its back is turned on him, the Bas can still see him as he rushes towards it, flamethrower poised and ready. The ape turns abruptly around and jumps at him, before he can get his fingers on the handle to open fire, and a flash of silver reflects the sun sharply somewhere out the corner of his eye.

It's Cas, slashing his blade across, and the Bas howls, pouncing awkwardly back, one front paw raised and limping, the palm of its hand cut open and bleeding. The creature snarls, and Castiel's eyes narrow, an almost growl or a hiss escaping him as he stands beside Dean, and if Dean hadn't just had a near-heart attack and wasn't worried sick about Sam, he'd find it very hot.

Sammy is groaning, coming to on the ground, and the Bas glances at him with its back pair of eyes, but doesn't show him any interest, which yeah, is good. The downside to that is that they're one man down and the Bas is zeroing in on dinner – Dean.

And Dean gets an idea how to get the Bas, how to get it close enough to actually torch it, because it keeps running away before the flames touch it long enough to catch. It especially could work now that Cas had injured the thing, presumably knocking a lot of speed out of it. The idea is what Sam would call 'dumb' and what Cas would definitely not agree to, so Dean doesn't deem it prudent to share it with the rest of the team.

So as soon as Cas glances towards Sam to make sure he's alright, Dean dashes away from him. Divide and conquer, this is what the Bas is doing, trying to single Dean out, and he's willing to make it easy for the thing.

"Dean!" the fear and pain in Castiel's voice send a lurch through Dean's heart, and he knows his angel is running after him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't want to let Cas catch up, because then the whole makeshift plan will topple, and Cas will be in danger.

So he runs faster, he can see the Bas out the corner of his eye, rushing after him, slower because of the injury, but still fast like a dog in full run, shrinking the distance between itself and Dean with dizzying speed.

His flesh tingles, the skin on his back aching with alert, each nerve in his body high strung, and his peripheral vision is a thousand times more clearer and consuming than what he has ahead of him, the massive, dark shape in the corner of his eye taking up all his attention. He clutches his flamethrower, his body more and more tense, almost too tense to keep on running as he ticks the metres off in his mind, the distance closing between him and his chase…

When the Bas is almost on him, Dean turns around, falling to the ground, aiming to land on his back, clutching his weapon and preparing for the hard slam of floor to hit the air out of his lungs, and the sharp impact jolts his vision for one uncomfortable second.

"Dean!"

The Bas is pouncing onto him, and he holds back till the last moment, massive limbs framing him, one clawed hand pressing into his chest to keep him in place, a wide, gaping mouth opening, and just when a surge of hysteric fear makes him think it's too late, he opens fire.

The flames burst out of the large can, hitting the Bas right in the face, sweeping over its chest and belly, setting the fur on fire, and the creature leaps back with a scream, just as Cas reaches Dean, landing by his side.

They scramble themselves up into a sitting position, watching the Bas burn quick, the flames seem to eat it up into nothingness, like a piece of paper, it simply _disappears_ chunk by chunk, until just the last flicker of fire floats in the air, before it too is put out, nothing more to feast on. There's no charred carcass, no remains, not even any sort of ash or other residue – nothing, the creature just evaporated.

Dean lets out a massive breath he hadn't realized he's been holding, shakily getting up to his feet, Cas pulling him up by an arm. Sammy is already walking over to them, holding a hand to his shoulder where the Bas had hit him, but he doesn't look injured.

"That was very reckless," Castiel's voice is hard like a stone, eyes fixed intently on Dean. "But also very effective."

"Yeah, well, most effective things are," Dean huffs out a half-assed chuckle, and he realises he's a bit shaken. Damn, almost having your soul sucked out does things to you.

"Are you OK?" Sam asks, scanning Dean with wary, careful eyes.

"Yeah. Soul present and accounted for," he pats his own chest. He looks at Cas and takes his hand in his, something neither of them really do often, which is why it's a gesture that says something, even a lot. He gives a small squeeze, and feels relieved when he receives one in return. "C'mon. Let's go home."

* * *

**So, a team effort - Cas identified the creature, Sam found a way to kill it, and Dean did the honours.**

**I hope the chapter was enjoyable :)**

**Next chapter - Destiel fluff, and Sam lets Cas in on what he's up to with Crowley.**

**Please review! Those balls of fluffy goodness help keep me going and make me do a very dorky dance of happiness :)**


	14. Hope

**Again, so sorry for the delay, block not letting up much. Still, I hope this chapter is enjoyable, and as promised - heaps of Destiel fluffage! :D Also, lots of Cas POV in this one.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**14. Hope**

A thin, white sheer curtain billows smoothly inside, a breeze wafting across the room, blowing gently in through the window wide open. It carries bright morning sunshine, the rising and falling whoosh of whispering trees, and small particles of sunlit fluff swirling in on the flowing air. It smells of sun and freshness and open space, and Castiel breathes slow and deep, closing his eyes a little against the sunlight streaming into the room.

He's laid out on his back in another motel bed, head propped up in soft pillows, Dean relaxed on top of him, his head laid on Castiel's chest, a thick sheet wrapped around them. They'd just made love, and Dean fell back asleep, lingering in shallow, morning slumber, and Castiel keeps his arm wrapped around his beloved's waist.

There's tranquillity soaked with passive energy, the sensation of light, brightness and air, and each breath Castiel takes feels fresh and pure and lazy. The morning is warm for October, but with pleasantly sweeping cooler currents that seem to animate and give life to everything, including light itself.

Castiel is happy.

Truly, completely, and surprisingly _simply_ happy. His happiness does not require any elaborate variables coming together for his benefit, no. In this present moment, he has all he needs and _wants_. He has Dean, a peaceful moment, a rest, and the added enjoyment of sunlight and breeze, which he always likes. He's relaxed with the pleasurable activities from just twenty minutes ago, and he feels Dean's calm, trusting breath warm his skin in a slow rhythm.

He smiles, letting his eyes lazily crack open just a little way, just enough to let the light distort into liquid splinters in between his own eyelashes, creating an ever-shifting vision of sharp and blurred mirages.

Dean stirs slightly atop him, a small, soft sound escaping his lips, and Castiel smiles, opening his eyes more and looking down at his beloved. He's slowly coming awake, completely relaxed and content, and Castiel's soul thrums with happiness at seeing Dean this way. He leans in and presses a kiss to Dean's hair, and a concept of 'complete' and 'perfect' breathes through his mind.

"Hmm…" Dean hums, his lips curling up into a smile, and Castiel shifts a little, the sheets rustling as he wraps both arms around Dean who stirs a bit more, then blinks awake, his beautiful green eyes seeking out Castiel's instantly. He smiles. "Hey, huggie-bear," his voice is husked with sleep.

"Hello, Dean."

Castiel's customary greeting calls a wider smile onto Dean's face, and with fascination, Castiel watches the pattern of freckles shift to accommodate the grin. Dean shifts, bracing his hands on the bed on both Castiel's sides, and moves up, leaning in for a long, slow kiss. He traces Dean's lower lip with his tongue, collecting the warm taste before being admitted to deepen the kiss.

As they pull away, Castiel pushes gently against Dean, rolling him into his back, and settles on his side, snuggled close into Dean, propped on an elbow, while his other arm he slings across Dean's torso. He's warm, content, surrounded by brightness, and Dean's body is pressed comfortingly close against his own.

His beloved is smiling, remnants of sleep glistening like golden flecks in his eyes. The sunlight gliding against them turns the unique hue verdant, deep and soaked with gold, and Castiel watches, enraptured, as the myriad of hues and patterns keeps on shifting slowly in those familiar, soulful eyes. There's no pain in them, an occurrence all too rare for what Dean deserves, and Castiel's own happiness rises, high with Dean's peace and quiet joy.

The sunlight lays over Dean's lightly tanned skin, colouring it with warmth, as if the Sun itself is in love with the Righteous Man as well. Castiel smiles lightly as he watches the smattering of tiny freckles dusting Dean's shoulders and chest, and they seem to shimmer, disappearing and emerging in the gently shifting light.

"You're beautiful," Castiel whispers earnestly, leaning in, and brushes a mere echo of a kiss against Dean's soft lips.

A blush skims over Dean's cheeks, causing the corners of Castiel's lips to tug up in a smile, showing a glimpse of teeth.

"Cas…" Dean's whisper is a little broken, perhaps from sleep, but more likely from emotion.

"You are," Castiel murmurs, ducking his head to press slow, lazy kisses onto the more major freckles on Dean's chest, his tongue flicking out once or twice as he can't resist tasting Dean's skin.

His beloved breathes out a quiet moan, a hand immersing itself in Castiel's hair, fingers closing, giving a light sensation of tugging that always stirs an odd sort of pleasure all over Castiel's flesh. Dean likes his hair, claims he likes 'having something to hold onto', and so he does, very often when they make love and Dean's release draws near. He will grasp at Castiel's hair, breathing moans and his name, causing Castiel to further lose himself in their shared pleasure. There are also times when their pleasure builds slow and lazy, when their moves are soft and laced with tenderness, much like they were this morning. Castiel likes all the emotional variations in which they have sex, and he enjoys each time thoroughly, pleased to see that Dean does as well.

He nuzzles a line upwards between Dean's pectoral muscles and kisses the soft, vulnerable underside of his chin, proceeding up, his lips gently grazing against the morning stubble. Dean's warmth and scent surround him, and he breathes, imbibing himself on morning sunlight, Dean's fragrance and closeness, and the touch of bare skin against skin.

He's happy.

So he kisses Dean again, feeling and tasting his smile, enjoying the closeness of his strong body as Dean shifts slightly onto his side as well, pressing even snugger into Castiel. One arm wraps tight around his waist, while the other goes to cradle the back of Castiel's head, tilting it gently, and Dean deepens the kiss delectably from that angle, causing Castiel to breathe out a slow sigh of pleasure. It spurs Dean on, causing his other hand to trail up and down Castiel's side, before it settles on his hip, a thumb rubbing slow, pressuring circles over the sharp jut of his hipbone – something Dean does often, lavishing attention on that particular detail of his body, and Castiel relishes every moment of it.

Dean grins when they pull away again, wrapping his arm back around Castiel's waist and tugging him closer, their bellies pressed together tight and pleasurably.

"C'mon," Dean rubs the back of Castiel's thigh, causing a tingling sensation to spread over his flesh. "Let's hit the shower."

Just two days after the lucky finale of the Bas case (brought about by Dean's courage and recklessness, a trait Castiel incompletely admires, but loves and adores with fervour), they took up another case in New Mexico, skimming over a still mostly summer climate. It had been a simple case, a 'salt and burn', as Dean and Sam call it, and they'd completed it in just two days. Today they will be heading back, and Castiel enjoys the prospect of coming home.

He'd ponder a little more on the way he for the first time in his life feels full comfort and security in a place he calls home, but Dean's naked body distracts him as his beloved gets out of the bed and proceeds to stretch, his exposed back arching, muscles shifting underneath his golden skin, and Castiel watches, caught up in the view. Dean looks over his shoulder, smirking, and winks his way.

Their shower is short, but complete with the ritual of washing each other a little, a few soft, lazy kisses traded under the trickling water.

After they dry themselves off and get dressed, they head to Sam's room to collect him and get going. Sam is on the phone when they enter his room and promptly ends the call and disconnects as they come in. Castiel observes the slight rush in Sam's greeting, and the somewhat nervous way in which he stashes the phone in his jeans pocket. He stores the facts in his memory. He trusts Sam, naturally. But it appears that, in a small way, for some reason, Sam doesn't presently trust him and Dean.

* * *

They finally watch _Raiders of the Lost Ark_, as Dean had promised, and Castiel is intrigued, already rather enjoying the movie as it begins. Sam and Dean bicker, something about a leather jacket and childhood mania on Dean's part, but Castiel lets that pass by his ears, perhaps tuning the brothers out a little bit.

He's settled into his usual movie-watching spot, with Sam on his left and Dean on his right, Dean soon pulling him closer, which he happily complies with. As usual, he's in charge of the giant bowl of popcorn (he has to be, because if either Sam or Dean hold it, fights and accusations of hoarding promptly ensue), and occasionally he nibbles on a kernel, though the action on the screen consumes his attention more.

Dean grins, shooting a lingering glance at Cas' profile. As far as life goes, he's pretty damn happy right now. He's settled comfortably on the sofa, watching one of the best movies ever, and he scores bonus points for Cas' obvious interest in the film.

Though as they're halfway through the movie, he's beginning to think he's missed a conversation somewhere in the past. Because Cas keeps sneaking Sam sideway death glares, and the moment the Ark is shown for the first time, he actually turns his head to burn Sammy into a crisp with his special smiting stare. Sam, who's been pressing his lips tighter and tighter together with each glare, finally loses it, throwing his hands up into the air.

"Dude, for the last time, I was _soulless_!" he cries out exasperatedly. "I'm sorry, OK? I told you I was sorry!"

Cas just narrows his eyes a little bit and turns his attention back to the screen, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

"What the hell?" Dean questions, glancing at his two nerds.

"Sam has tricked me quite insensitively once," Cas explains, eyes glued to the screen.

Sam rolls his eyes, tilting his head back for a moment.

"I was soulless and I needed you to come, and I said I was sorry!"

"Alright, don't get a hissy fit," Dean placates. "And you, quit glaring at him," he instructs Cas.

In reply, Cas turns to look at him, with those big blue eyes downright _brimming_ with innocent, harmed confusion and puppy-like devotion, and Dean's hand freezes for a moment in the popcorn bowl as he stares at the face Cas is making. Damn, the bastard is _good_…!

Dean refuses to budge, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth, and forcibly makes himself put his eyes back on the screen. A terrifying thought makes a cold shiver trickle down his spine – if Cas and Sammy ever gang up on him with two sets of puppy eyes, he's _doomed_.

The movie goes on, plot twisting and turning, all interwoven with solid amounts of good breed of action, and Dean just enjoys, following the memorised events on the screen, occasionally glancing at Cas, gauging his reactions with a small smile. Cas is engrossed, clearly enjoying himself, sometimes tipping his head to side as some small inaccuracy in the plot or inconsequence of progressive shots strikes him, but he doesn't comment on any of those. Dean likes all those things, the small imperfections – they have this flavour of classic cinema.

Time ticks by, marked by steady decrease of popcorn level in the bowl in Cas' lap, and the Nazi expedition reaches the canyon as they carry the Ark.

"Dude, he totally ate that fly!"

"No, man, I'm telling you, he didn't, it flew away!"

"C'mon, I've watched that moment up close, it doesn't fly away!"

Sam shoots Dean a bitchface as they carry out another round of their customary _Raiders_ bicker, while Cas follows the exchange, turning his head left and right like at a tennis match. The puzzled look in his eyes grows deeper and deeper, because even if he obviously sees what moment of the movie Dean and Sam are wrestling over (for now just verbally), but the _why_ definitely escapes him.

The movie is put on pause, and the debate continues.

"Sammy, I watched that moment shot-by-shot once, the fly doesn't get away, it just goes into his mouth," Dean persists.

"Yeah, well – I researched this stuff online, and apparently the montage people thought it would be great to make it _look_ like he ate that fly," Sam's got his victory bitchface on, pulling out his crappy 'I researched it online' trump card. "They just took out the two shots in which the fly gets away."

"C'mon, dude, there would have been a glitch," Dean persists fighting a losing battle, because he's not just gonna cave in to Sammy, dammit!

"Actually, each shot in a movie lasts one-twenty-fourth of a second," Castiel pipes in, large blue eyes looking into Dean's with devotion. "So removal of two would go unnoticed by human eye."

Dean grumbles, dropping himself back against the sofa, and he's _not_ sulking as he hits 'play' again. Sam gapes like an outraged fish.

"So, when I say it, it's bullshit, but when _he_ says it, you're OK with it!"

"Yeah, well, I like him better than you," Dean bites back, to which Sam eloquently responds with a scoff.

The debate ends, and they watch the rest of the movie in relative peace, interrupted only by one or two questions from a sceptical Cas.

"I did enjoy this movie," Dean's huggy-bear announces once the credits roll. "It was interesting, though naturally somewhat incorrect in its approach to the Ark of the Covenant, but it had some well-made assumptions about it," he ponders for a moment. "It was… interesting to see how people imagine the idea of god's power enclosed," his lips twitch in a smile, a small grin flashing a peek of white teeth as he apparently has some inside joke with himself. Dean and Sam exchange glances, left out of the celestial loop. "It was… very amusing at moments," Castiel confesses, still grinning, and Dean nods slowly.

"Yeah, OK., good for you," he pats Cas' shoulder, and gets up to fetch beer from the kitchen.

He doesn't bring any for Sammy, which earns him a bitchface, and also makes his brother leave to get his own beer. When Sam comes back, it's to Dean and Cas making out, sprawled all over the sofa, and Dean grins into a kiss as he hears Sammy whine about eye-bleach and leave.

He knew watching _Raiders_ was a great idea.

* * *

Castiel wakes up to a feeling of an affectionate hand softly petting through his hair, and a warm breath puffing his name into his ear.

"Cas… wake up a little, buddy…"

Slowly, he unglues his eyes open, blinking to at least slightly disperse the layer of blur, and focuses on Dean's face close in front of his own. His beloved is smiling a little, his green eyes fond and warm as he leans over Castiel, hand in his hair.

"Dean…?" Castiel's whisper cracks wetly. He doesn't know the time, but he feels it's early, and that he definitely hadn't slept long enough yet. Dean smiles in the dim, small nightlight drowning the room in orangey half-tones.

"Hey… I'm going out for a bit – Garth called, he's in the neighbourhood and has something for us, I said I'll swing by and take it."

"I'll come with you," the blur swims in Castiel's eyes and brain, and he tries to get up, but he doesn't even manage to lift himself at least a little.

And Dean just leans in closer, stroking his head again, smiling.

"Nah, you go back to sleep, baby…" he whispers over Castiel's lips, and then kisses him, so very soft and warm. "'s still early."

"But…" Castiel tries to think of something to say, not quite sure why he even wants to accompany Dean in the first place, since it's so early and he's so sleepy…

"Sh-sh," Dean whispers with a small smile, his breath touching Castiel's lips before he kisses him again. "I'm already dressed. I'll be back soon, and I'll get us some pie on the way back," he grins, and runs a hand through Castiel's hair once more. "Go back to sleep."

"Hmmh…" Castiel obediently sinks back into his pillow, rolling onto his side and snuggling into the covers, barely just managing to crack an eye open again to see Dean looking back at him with a loving smile before leaving their bedroom.

Castiel half-slumbers, feeling surrounded with Dean's warmth as if he were in his embrace.

There are times when Dean is so very, very tender, his touches and kisses gentle, soft and loving, and when that happens, Castiel can see the quiet, shy joy that Dean takes in this, in being able to be like so, in allowing himself to be tender. It's not at all his usual demeanour, and Castiel knows he is the only one seeing this side to Dean – and he's happy with it.

He sleeps some more, and as he wakes again, he feels much more rested. A half-bleary glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand (which happens to be by his side of the bed) informs him it's close to 9 am, but he doesn't know how long Dean's been gone.

He misses Dean's presence in bed, the dip of the mattress (Dean's celebrated memory foam) and the warmth radiating from his body, pulling Castiel in addictively.

Since with Dean out there's nothing to keep his interest in the bed (and he's not even sleepy anymore), he gets up, stretching slow and deep as he arches backwards, feeling a delicious shift of tension in his muscles. Like showers and food, stretching is another one of those small details of human life that he's almost instantly come to greatly enjoy. Dean is fondly amused by his affinity for stretching in the morning, but Castiel has no idea why.

Barefoot, he pads out of their bedroom, wearing his usual sleeping attire (boxers and his favourite T-shirt depicting a round fuzzy bee sleeping in a flower), and heads for the kitchen. He makes himself coffee, and as he waits for it to brew, he takes a cloth and washes off a coffee ring very obviously left by Dean just some time ago.

With his coffee, he decides to head for Sam's room – Sam is an early riser, and to not see him up after nine is unusual. Perhaps he is in the library, because if Dean was taking him along, he would have told Castiel that.

"Sam?" he knocks on his friend's closed door. Behind the plank of wood, he can hear a hurried murmur and a muffled movement.

"Yeah, come in!"

Sam is fully dressed, only without his shoes on, sitting on his bed, a somewhat haphazard pile of books and scripts stacked up beside him, and as Castiel enters his room, he quickly places another book on top of the pile. It's a paperback, a novel, a clear contrast to the aged volumes and a few sheets of parchment, and clearly placed there to hide the identity of the topmost book of the original pile.

"Hey, Cas," Sam greets him, ease and genuine smile ringing in his voice. "Dean's gone out to meet up with Garth, some weapon or something."

"I know, he told me," Castiel lets his eyes remain focused on the pile of books.

He can hear Sam take in a slow breath, and feels a flicker of tension rising in his friend. Silence drags on for a few more moments, and he looks at Sam, meeting the uneasy gaze of the hazel-green eyes. They're very soulful and expressive, capable of both overwhelming warmth and unpleasant coldness, though the latter almost never when Sam is being himself, not possessed or soulless. He is very kind, very loving and very loyal, but also very faithful to his own ideas and dreams, just like he is to the people he loves. Castiel respects and loves Sam, but he knows that while both brothers would only go behind each other's back for what they think is the other's own good, it never brings good results.

Sam bites on his lower lip, his unease seeping into the physical dimension as he shifts on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. Castiel stands, stoic and calm, coffee in hand, watching Sam with light but unwavering gaze.

"Actually… it's good that he's out," Sam finally manages, hesitant and slightly scattered, and runs a hand through his hair – a sign of nervousness and discomfort, usually caused by concern for the welfare of someone he cares about. "Uh… come here," he beckons at Castiel with his hand, and Castiel follows, approaching the bed, prudently setting the coffee aside on the desk on the other side of the room.

Sam takes the paperback off the pile, revealing the topmost book to Castiel whose eyes quickly skim over the title, the upside-down wording just as easy for him to read as the conventional direction of the text. _Community of demons_.

"So, uh…" Sam clearly wants to share whatever is on his mind with him, but he isn't prepared to be doing this now, visibly having intended for it to happen later on. "Listen, I've been working on something…"

"You were on the phone with Crowley," Castiel states simply – it isn't a difficult conclusion to make, details and small events coming together easily in his mind.

"Yeah…" Sam looks half deflated and simultaneously alert. "Look, he's being big help and… well, believe me this is weird for me, too, but he's not really that bad anymore."

"I know," Castiel smiles a little, trying to reassure Sam. "I don't hold anything against the person he is now. Well, his sense of humour could be a little altered, but it seems this is an aspect of his personality that isn't going to change."

Sam lets out a small chuckle.

"Yeah… so listen… he's been helping me with this thing I've been working on… And I wanted to get your thoughts, too, just… Well, I didn't want to let Dean know yet," he explains. "And you know, you guys share."

"What are you working on?" he's tentative. He trusts Sam's intentions and love for Dean, but doesn't entirely trust that Dean will understand that, much like it goes the other way around.

"Well… after the whole trials thing… I started thinking – what if there was a way to get rid of demons without closing the Gates of Hell? The Cure for demons got me thinking about it, because it is a part of the trials, but it's also a thing on its own, we've seen that video, it was done without relation to the trials," the hesitance and nervousness slowly drains from Sam's demeanour, replaced by slowly rising excitement and glimpses of confidence, and Castiel tilts his head, listening carefully, already suspecting what will be Sam's conclusion. "So, I thought – what if we could cure each demon, _every_ demon? The result would be the same as closing the Gates, but without the death part."

"That… would be good," Castiel agrees, hope beginning to stir inside him. He thinks about the ordeal the Winchesters have been through, all their lives, about the sacrifice each of them made in that church, just about to finish the trials – Dean sacrificed the mission of his life to keep Sam, and Sam was perfectly willing to sacrifice his life. And he thinks of all the havoc that demons have wreaked over humanity and Earth over the millennia.

And as soon as Sam mentioned the trials and curing each demon, he knew what Sam has in mind, and he thinks it's possible, he thinks they can do it, so he moves closer still to Sam.

"You're thinking about finding out if there is something that connects all the demons – a source, or a shared dimension of a bond, and if we can distribute the Cure through that, all of them would be defeated," he says, sitting on Sam's bed, and his friend nods, eyes wide and lit up with eagerness at Castiel's understanding.

"Yeah!" he breathes enthusiastically. "So, I've been in touch with Crowley, sort of asked him to consult for me… he says there is a possibility. And – I wanted your opinion and knowledge, too, just… later. Cause, I don't want to tell Dean about this now. Not before I'm certain we're onto something… I just… I don't want to get his hopes up," Sam shrugs, eyes dropping as he bites his lip, awkward and shy, and Castiel feels fondness and warmth fill his heart.

That impulse rushes through him, and he reaches out a hand, resting it on Sam's shoulder, smiling slightly at the surprised look in his friend's eyes.

"I think it's a good idea," he says honestly. "And I understand why you kept it from Dean. It's… very caring."

"Oh – good, because I wanted to ask you not to tell him anything yet either."

Well, that's… not what he was aiming for.

"Sam…" he doesn't like the sound of this, he doesn't want to hide things from Dean, not now, not anymore, not after everything he's done and all the destruction and horrors that his secrets have brought about.

"Look, just – hear me out, OK?" Sam hurries in, catching Castiel's gaze with an earnest, pleading look – it must be what Dean calls the 'puppy eyes of doom'. He finds it disturbingly effective, and he listens on. "I don't want to get his hopes up, and I need you to tell me if there _is_ anything to be hopeful about. Crowley says there is, but well, I wanna double-check."

"You don't trust him," Castiel understands what Sam means.

"A bit, and also maybe there's something you know and he doesn't. And he wanted you to be in on this, too…"

"Hmm," Castiel is aware of the bizarre fondness that Crowley seems to have developed for him, and it's not the most comfortable thing, but he can live it down if need be. So long as this fondness doesn't progress into any bouts of sudden affection, which can easily happen with Crowley's emotional state, which could put a stereotypical pregnant woman to shame.

"So – please don't tell Dean anything yet?" Sam employs his puppy eyes once more, but luckily Castiel isn't so easily swayed. Dean claims he does puppy eyes, too – maybe it gives him some immunology?

"What did Crowley tell you?" he's practised at this, avoiding a direct and clear answer to an uncomfortable question or request.

"He said that there is a chance. That there is a common element that all demons share, something that Lucifer used to create them," Sam talks, quicker and quicker, his eyes shining in excitement. "So if we can find that, and if we can figure out a way to get to it, then we might be able to distribute the Cure through that."

"I've heard similar things. But Sam, we don't know what that element is, we don't know if it's a physical object or a concept, and in both cases it would be hard, considering the cure is, essentially, a ritual," Castiel hates to point it all out, but he'd hate it even more for Sam – and especially Dean – to be disappointed afterwards, when hope had entered their hearts, only to be crushed and burned out once again. He just wouldn't be able to stand seeing it happen to them.

But Sam doesn't look too daunted.

"I know, I've thought about that, and I think we actually have a chance _because_ it's a ritual. We could find ways to change and adapt it, so it fits either an item or a concept! There are ways to do it."

"I know," he does. "And Crowley is telling you the truth, I've heard it mentioned as well. But no one had thought that demons could all be destroyed through this element… I also had been thinking. Perhaps if… if angels can be… cast down from Heaven…" he has to physically tense to force the words out of his throat, and they taste sharp and bitter, scraping vilely in his throat, and a thick taste of loathing pours down his palate and into his stomach. He swallows, trying not to choke on it, and meets Sam's valiantly sympathetic gaze – though it only serves to make things worse. "Then maybe demons could be cast out from Hell," he ploughs on. "And I think your idea and mine could be the very same thing."

Sam's eyes lit up.

It's a beam of strength and invincible force – a human power of hope and determination. A force to forge against all odds and carry on beyond limits of presumed strength, a source of astonishing courage and strength, surging with everlasting inspiration, something Castiel's so often seen and admired and tried to understand.

And now, he feels it fill his chest, too.

* * *

**And now we know what Sam's been up to.**

**I hope you liked the chapter. Next up - I'll probably bring Charlie in with some LARPing fun, what do you think? Should I?**

**Review, I cuddle each of those fluff balls and roll around happily in my backyard whenever I get one :)**


	15. All the queen's men

**Eeeee-EEEE-eeee! Thank you so much for all the reviews! I was rolling happily around in my backyard, cuddling them all! You guys are the best! And a huge, massive shoutout to the guest reviewers, whom I can't thank more personally - you rock! :D**

**So, as requested, Charlie in this chapter :D And we have some LARPing, while we're at it. Because one of the s9 things I want to see, is Charlie finally meeting the Dreamy Angel :D (Well, not angel so much anymore.)**

**I hope you enjoy! :D**

* * *

**15. All the queen's men**

"Alright, bitches, it's my birthday, so for the next twenty-four hours you're my social slaves!"

With his spoonful of Lucky Charms suspended midway between bowl and mouth, Dean abruptly decides it was a bad idea to make Charlie a Woman of Letters and give her keys to the bunker. It's goddamn early, he's half-asleep and just wants to have his breakfast, but the redhead seems to have other plans as she joyfully bounces into the kitchen and takes her seat on a free chair. Sam just blinks.

"Happy birthday," Cas delivers the courteous and formal wishes, apparently not at all concerned with having just been made a 'social slave'.

Charlie beams, presses both hands to her lips, and blows Cas a big kiss.

As was easy to predict from the beginning, Charlie adores Cas. The first meeting might not have been exactly fortunate (as soon as she spotted him, she launched at him with a delighted squeal 'The dreamy angel!', which prompted Cas to explain he wasn't an angel anymore – through all the conversation, Dean felt like he was in pre-cardiac arrest stage, but luckily no drama ensued, Cas handled it like a champ), but Charlie's exuberant nature apparently hit home with Cas. He likes her very much, while she's disturbingly easily prodded into endearment by whatever he does. She also gave Dean a nudge and a leer after that first meeting, telling him he did well, but was a moron for not getting his shit together sooner. He agrees, but hadn't told her that, of course.

"Uh – OK., what are we your slaves for?" Sam asks, confusion etched all across his puppy face.

"A battle's gonna be held in my honour, followed by a feast, cause of course we'll win," Charlie helps herself to the box of Lucky Charms Dean and Cas are sharing (Sam is having one of his freaky salads), and pops them one by one into her mouth, crunching them dry. "So you three are gonna be my champions."

She looks at them expectantly, practically beaming, and Dean is still really half asleep, and worries he might not be appearing enthusiastic enough to satisfy Charlie's needs. Cas looks confused, while Sammy visibly tries to come up with a way to get out of this (the killjoy).

Dean reaches for the box of Lucky Charms and shakes some more of it out into his milk.

"Uh, sounds fun," he says, because damn, it _is_ fun, and he needs a dose of that, stat. What with Sammy apparently getting himself into some deep shit again, and he doesn't know if he should push or let it play out, and Cas seems to have an inkling, and he really needs to get his head out of that _now_.

"Well, great," Charlie beams. "Because it's my birthday, we do the battle in Kansas, cause I chose so."

"Cool, I'm game," Dean flashes her a grin, and looks questioningly (and OK., maybe also expectantly) at his brother and huggy-bear.

"A battle?" Cas frowns, confused, and there's the head tilt. God, Dean loves the head tilt.

"The LARP thing?" Dean reminds him, since he's explained the deal to him when telling him once about Charlie (just after the fall, when Cas was so depressed and shut off that he didn't speak for days, and Dean just talked to him about anything, everything).

"Oh," somehow, Cas manages to enrol a great elucidation in such a soft, quiet sound, his eyebrows going up a little, along with his whole head. His eyes are lively, and he looks pleasantly at Charlie who is positively vibrating, like a puppy seeing someone hold up a treat. "I think such a game battle sounds… fun."

He says it very sincerely, but Dean still swallows back a snort, because the word 'fun' sounds odd in his huggy-bear's mouth, and especially now, when he seems to have chosen it so carefully, trying to best display his attitude by it, and failing epically. That's just his Cas, Dean thinks fondly.

"Three to one, we have majority, you're coming," Charlie chippers (seriously, no one should have this much energy this early in the morning) at Sam.

"OK.," Sam agrees, looking spooked, but Dean can see a smile in the corners of his lips. Yeah, Sam enjoyed the LARPing spree, too. And as he's not dying now, he definitely should have more fun.

"Great! So work those spoons, get dressed and we'll be going. It's not far, but don't worry, far enough from your super-duper Batcave."

"Cool," Dean pushes another spoonful of breakfast into his mouth, while Castiel reaches for some more of those Lucky Charms (he is still somewhat puzzled – how can cereal be lucky?) and adds more to his milk.

Both he and Dean like this cereal particularly, and they go through boxes with an impressive speed. Sam resents them, because he's fond of it, too, but apparently always is left with nothing. Dean says not to pay any attention, because Sam is exaggerating (and claims he's found Sam stuffing his face with the Lucky Charms on many occasions), or 'just bitch-whining' as his beloved puts it, but nonetheless Castiel feels they should be more considerate of their shared stock of cereal. This time, Sam has bought several boxes and very clearly declared one to be 'off limits' to anyone but him, and even went so far as to keep it in his bedroom. It's true, Castiel and Dean do eat the cereal often, but he thinks Sam might overreact just a little.

As he goes through the remains of his breakfast, Castiel is quite intrigued with the prospect of this LARPing event. He can see Dean is very eager and excited, even if he's trying to hide it, and this naturally makes him eager to see something that puts his beloved in a good mood. He thinks Dean has definitely far too little joy in his life, even (or maybe, especially) in the simple aspects of it.

From what he understands, he is expected to be dressed in somewhat inexact replicas of medieval battle wear, and participate in a staged fight of two small groups playing battle with wooden swords. He thinks it an interesting exercise of skill without the prospect of harm, and he likes it for that reason – he may have been a soldier and a warrior all his life, but that does not mean he ever relished in bloodshed and violence. It was a righteous means to a righteous goal to him at the time. And now, he's not even sure if all of those goals were righteous to begin with.

So an idea of a play fight definitely intrigues him, and he's eager to see for himself how it looks. That, and he's pleased with the prospect of spending time with Charlie – he enjoys her company very much, even if he's often fondly rebuked for his still severely lacking knowledge of popular culture and video games. The latter, he enjoys whenever Charlie brings them over – he is the only person in their group capable of beating her, owing to his reflexes. And he's very happy with her fondness for board games, which are his preferred way of gaming. He's even amassed a small collection overtime, and even if most of them already were in the Batcave when he arrived here, he still takes some fond pride in his assortment.

They finish breakfast quickly, get dressed (Dean mentions something about a winter clothes shopping trip awaiting Castiel in the near future), and rejoin Charlie in the kitchen, where she's grinning, looking at a Polaroid of Castiel, Dean and Sam stuck to the fridge door with a magnet.

They ride in the Impala (Charlie had apparently hitchhiked her short way here from where her LARPing group had set up camp in the forest), Castiel pleased to take shotgun, while Sam and Charlie chat animatedly in the backseat.

He so much likes riding in the front, with Dean. He can press close to his beloved, feel his warmth radiating, and sometimes, on long drives, toe off his shoes and curl across the seat, resting his head on Dean's lap, closing his eyes and feeling Dean's warmth and scent surround him, feel the precise, easy and subtle shifts of muscle in his thighs as he works the pedals, and look up and watch sun gleam on his freckled skin. Sometimes, he reads with his head comfortably rested at just the right angle on Dean's lap, and every so often, Dean's hand slides into his hair, running through it, stroking affectionately.

It doesn't happen today, though, because the ride is relatively short (at least by comparison to some interstate trips they take), and they have an audience in the backseat. As much as Castiel likes Charlie, her cooing does make a bit of a mood-killer.

So he just enjoys the unspoiled views through the windscreen, the song currently playing (Led Zeppelin, he recognises the voice, but not the name of the song), and Dean's proximity. He shimmies a little closer to him across the bench, and Dean flashes him a quick smile.

The warmth in his gold-specked green eyes fills Castiel's newly gotten soul to the brim.

* * *

The drive takes just around half an hour, and they pull up in a parking lot set up in a forest clearing. Nearby, Dean can see the camp set up – the tents and props, complete with stocks, though the latter is currently unoccupied. Maybe later he'll manage to cram Sammy into it. The people they pass by greet Charlie with happy calls and occasional wishes of happy birthday (appropriately flowery spoken, those guys get a little bit too much into the spirit of the times). Cas is looking around with interest, his intense blue eyes soaking up every detail, squinting occasionally in that focus he sometimes pulls, and his head tilts a few times. Generally, he seems pleased and intrigued, even flashing Dean a small, soft smile when he catches him looking.

"C'mon, you guys can change here," Charlie pulls back the flap to one of the tents. "I got some swords in my tent, it's right over there, on that small hill," she points. "Come and hail when you're done, yeah?"

Dean quickly finds clothes resembling the ones he wore the last time (shamefully enough, no trace of the wig), though he's happy to find a very cool-looking breastplate, with Charlie's crest carved on it – score! He locates some chain mail and hauls it to Cas who's currently experiencing a multiple choice dilemma over a rack of shirts and capes.

"Dude, no," Dean chuckles, taking a purple monstrosity out of his hands, and throwing it away (accidentally, it lands beautifully draped over Sam's head – bonus!). "White," he instructs, pulling another shirt out. "You're gonna look awesome in white."

"These chain mails are extremely well crafted," Cas remarks, taking the heap of metal wire out of Dean's hands, and begins to inspect each loop up close, so Dean hangs the white shirt on Cas' shoulder. His honey-bee is grinning a little, white teeth peeking out. "It's good to see such care and enjoyment put into a handcraft."

"Yeah. You need boots."

Okay, so Dean might have a thing for boots, and maybe he is thrilled to find a neat black pair for himself (and then there's the whole Dr Sexy thing), but dammit, a guy is allowed to have some fun every now and then, right? And he sure as _hell_ isn't gonna miss out on an opportunity to dress up Cas and ogle him all day!

"C'mon, Sammy, blue? We fight for Charlie, we should go for red and stuff," he admonishes as he passes by his brother.

"You're taking this too seriously, dude."

"Fine, don't come crying to me when someone in our army clobbers you by mistake."

"I'll take my chances with wooden-sword-wielding tax accountants," comes the bitchy wry reply, and Dean grins. It's good to get away from all the Heaven-and-Hell shit and just kick back and have some fun. Damn right they deserve it.

And so, grinning like a shark smelling a meal, Dean begins to dress up a slightly confused looking Cas. He tugs off the jacket and pulls the tee (another typography, this one saying 'Ask me tomorrow') over Cas' head, and valiantly tries to keep it in his pants when Cas is left shirtless, his bare, subtly muscled torso all for Dean's viewing pleasure. He can't resist teasing Cas a little, though, and he brushes a quick touch over a sensitive spot on his side. Cas shudders, trying to throw Dean a warning glare, but the blown pupils give him away.

"Can you guys _please_ not grope each other when I'm here?" Sam's pained voice is filled with dread as he watches them, scowling, from the other side of the small (and suddenly much hotter…) tent.

"Bitch," Dean grunts, and hands Castiel the white shirt.

"Jerk."

Cas pulls on the chain mail over the shirt, and he does it with much ease and practice, and makes it look not really that heavy. He then takes the awesome white tunic with red hems that Dean has found for him, and puts it on, pulling the collar of the chain mail out, and buckles a sword belt around his waist.

Dean stares, because dressed in white, with dark brown trousers, and tying the lace on his vambraces in focus, Cas looks like a legitimate knight. With his own pants becoming just a little tight, Dean has enough presence of mind to reach for a white cape, with the red crest of Charlie's army, and he drapes it on Castiel's shoulders, tying it over his chest.

As he steps back, he gapes, Cas looking up. And despite the soft, asking look in his large blue eyes, Castiel looks like a full-blown crusader, with the pristine white cape tumbling down his shoulders, sword at his side, shoulders squared, but not a trace of unnatural stiffness in his pose.

Even Sam stares a little, as he walks up to Dean.

"Wow, Cas," he chuckles, causing a head tilt to happen. "You look like a real knight."

"Yes, I think the ensemble does look a bit like the armours of the crusaders," Cas looks down at himself. "I'm not sure-"

"Leave it, it's great," Dean jumps in before Cas can meddle with what Dean's just proudly created here.

They all look pretty fucking awesome, Dean thinks with a grin as they briefly check out a mirror set up in the tent. Dean opted for mostly brown, much like the last time, and the breastplate makes a swagger cool addition. He had Cas tie the right vambrace for him, because he was about to get royally pissed, trying to manage the strings with his left hand, and now he adjusts his sword belt, giving himself a sexy smirk in the mirror. Sammy is decked off in lighter brown, and he also got his hands on another white cape with red crest on the back, which makes the kid actually look really cool. He's also pulled his hair back again, and Dean wonders when Sammy will start curling his princess locks (the image of Sammy with a head full of rolls, dressed in a fuzzy bathrobe, going to bed, is priceless).

Dean finds Cas a sword, and hesitates for a moment, handing the wooden weapon to him.

"Hey, uh… go easy on people, OK?" he asks, watching Cas skilfully attach the sword to his belt. "I mean, don't let them win, just uh… y'know, don't kill anybody. It's just a game," for some reason (might be the holy crusader look) he feels it's necessary to make this extra clear and doubly underlined.

Castiel narrows his eyes, the pissed, smite-y look landing on his face.

"Don't patronise me, Dean, I know the difference between a play fight and a real one," he half-hisses, and Dean fights back a grin, because as funny as Cas is right now, he wouldn't be too pleased to be shown that. "Besides, this is just wood," he adds, a little agitated, gripping the hilt of his sword.

"Yeah, if anyone could find a way to kill someone with a stick sword…" Dean shrugs.

"Lay off, dude," Sam chuckles, defending Cas. Excuse Dean for trying to make sure they don't get a battery-and-assault charge on their hands.

They leave the tent, heading out for Charlie's. When they enter, she blushes a little and sends off a rather hot chick who's been inside.

"Nice," Dean grins and leers playfully at Charlie.

"Shut up," she elbows him in the side, but then glances up, mischief twinkling in her eyes. "Did you check out the rack?" she whispers, grinning. "_Nice_, huh?"

"So, she's your new handmaiden? I don't count anymore?" Dean fakes a holding-it-in heartbroken face.

"Yeah, sorry, she's got better boobs than you," Charlie shrugs with a wicked grin. "But, you're upgraded to my champion, let's see my champions," she puts on a regal tone, notching her chin up and trying to look down on the three of them, which is kind of hard, because she's a head shorter even than Cas.

They all line up before her, and she beams.

"Very nice, very handsome," she approves. "I do hope you shall not shame me in battle."

"We will do our best to bring you honour," Cas replies a little too solemnly, and Dean blinks at him.

"Great," chirps Charlie. "Now come on, let's kick some Ork ass!"

* * *

Blood is rushing hot and thrilling through Castiel's veins, his laboured breathing matching the sweeping pace, his muscles burning and willing to go on, and the rush is glorious and high and overwhelming. Dean slings an arm around his shoulders as their army cheers, standing in the dusty field, battle won, the enemies retreating shamefully into the woods, and Castiel finds himself grinning, so wide his cheeks hurt, and he can feel strong, beaming light filling him, and it must be joy and _fun_.

Dean pulls him closer to his side, his free hand thrusting his wooden sword into the air and he cheers on, and Castiel laughs, stumbling a little as Dean sways, pulling him along. Sam is nearby, looking ridiculous as he twirls his sword in an odd way, also cheering. Charlie is jumping up and down, before three other of her warriors lift her up into the air in triumph, and she laughs, trying and failing to put on some regal dignity.

The exercise had been exhilarating. All the rush and speed and intensity of a fight, yet without the burden of death and harm, and Castiel had plunged into it eagerly, found it engrossing and gloriously liberating. The body that is now his own, worked with precision and effort, ploughing through enemies, as he performed well-honed strikes, blows and dodges, immersing himself in the familiar choreography of fight, but for the first time in his life without the clenching regret.

It was thrilling.

They're all dirty and somewhat battered, Castiel knows he will, in the next days, with fascination observe the process of bruises emerging on his skin (this new property of his body is mesmerizing), but he doesn't care, because all of it feels _fantastic_.

His beloved is caked in dust, a few clearer streaks on his face from where the sweat trickled, his hair dirty and ruffled, igniting a tight desire in Castiel's chest to run his fingers through it. His green eyes are alight, pupils dilated as they meet his gaze, and Castiel cannot hold back, he pulls Dean into a rough, strong kiss. His lips taste of sweat and dust and something more, the unique flavour of Dean, and they're hot and respond with just as much need, Dean's arms wrapping around Castiel's waist, causing a tight delight to coil in his belly.

Dean looks devastatingly gorgeous, Castiel thinks in an adrenaline haze, pulling away for breath which they're both short on. His tanned skin is unevenly darkened with smudges of dust and soil, a slight, reddening bruise forming on his cheekbone, and Castiel kisses the spot, soothing it with his tongue, and collects the tart, spicy taste of Dean's skin. He pulls back to look at Dean more. His hair is wildly mussed, with a few straws of dried grass sticking out, his green eyes are flaming with the rush of exertion, his full lips parted in laboured breaths.

Castiel had watched him fight during the battle, whenever he could spare a glimpse. Dean had moved fluently, with force and skill, his swings and blows well measured and practised, his muscles working and shifting with trained precision, but also wild rush. He looked like a warrior fighting for a righteous cause, and Castiel found himself gaping just a little bit too long once or twice (and he will soon have a bump formed on his head from a wooden sword to testify to that). Dean's green eyes were determined and aflame, his full mouth open as he breathed hard, and all that caused heat to pool in the pit of Castiel's stomach.

Also, he never had particularly many thoughts about Dean's attire, except for the fact that Dean always looked so temptingly handsome, and his clothes gave Castiel a sense of comfort and familiarity. But seeing Dean decked off in a medieval-styled outfit was, well… he definitely can feel a bit hot whenever looking at his beloved. The shades of brown compose so well with his hair, and Castiel wishes there were green accents instead of red, to bring out Dean's thrilling eyes. The image Dean makes as a medieval warrior, is severely, severely arousing.

They're supposed to stay overnight at a bonfire. Peering at Dean's behind, Castiel thinks he will make sure he and Dean make use of the Impala's backseat yet again.

"My champions!" Charlie storms joyously towards them, and Dean laughs, catching her into a massive hug, then lifts her into the air, twirling, and Castiel grins, watching Charlie laugh as her red hair flares through the sun.

"Your Majesty," Sam grins, playfully saluting Charlie with his sword as he approaches.

He's clearly enjoying himself, too, and it fills Castiel's chest with warmth, bringing a smile onto his face – of the three of them, Sam is the one most yearning for what he calls 'normal life', free from so much struggle against what humans call supernatural, so it saddens Castiel that he is also the least easy to have fun. It seems so very unfair that, while wanting a normal life, Sam has so much difficulties accepting moments of respite from his hunting duties. Castiel thinks he and Dean should perhaps find a way to provide Sam with some small, occasional joys every now and then.

"Come on, my three gorgeous slaves," Charlie slings one arm around Dean's shoulders, while the other around Castiel's pulling them close to her sides, and grins at Sam. "Let's have us some feast, and then we're setting up a bonfire when it gets dark!"

They don't really wash or clean up too much, because apparently it's 'more fun that way', or so Dean assures him (he's not convinced, but will play along), and they head for makeshift tables being set up.

The food is very tasty – Castiel always enjoys eating after exertion, when he's hungry, it feels so pleasant and fulfilling, therefore he helps himself with gusto to everything he deems good looking. (Which includes a few stray touches to Dean's thigh and hip under the cover of the table.)

Three hours later, everyone collects wood for the bonfire, and there are four failed attempts at setting a lasting fire to the elaborate (and somewhat illogically composed) construction of hay, twigs and branches. The final, successful attempt is made by Sam, and Dean is sour for a moment, probably because one of the failed attempts was his own. Castiel finds out that kissing his beloved is a good method of distracting him from petty resentments.

The dusk progresses into darkness as their victorious army sits around the bonfire. There are sausages and pieces of bread baked on long sticks over the fire, and Castiel is introduced to a wonderful invention of humanity – small, foamy, ever so slightly gummy, cylindrically-shaped sweets that are supposed to be baked over the fire as well. They're extremely sweet and melt in his mouth, and Dean laughs at him and warns him not to eat too many as he bakes one after another. The half-melted foam sticks to his fingers, and he finds he actually enjoys continually licking them clean.

Even more, he enjoys when one time Dean licks his fingers clean for him. The sensation of Dean's hot, wet mouth and tongue closing over every digit separately, gliding over the hypersensitive surface, fixes him rigid to his spot on the grass, and all he can do is stare into Dean's hooded eyes gleaming with a playful glint in the firelight.

Yes, they're definitely going to make use of the Impala's backseat tonight.

Dean sends him a wink, apparently catching the idea (they've always understood and communicated so much to each other without words), and puts three of the foam treats (marshmallows, apparently) onto his stick.

Castiel takes a deep breath, because he can smell the deep, cool scent drifting over from the forest – the damp moss, the pine resin and fallen needles. A hint of mushrooms teases his nose, barely there. He'd like fresh mushrooms. He doesn't think Dean would be willing to go mushroom picking with him early morning (for that, he's willing to get up), but perhaps Sam will be.

He looks up, leaning back, letting his mouth fall open as he cranes his neck. The night sky is inky black, specked with echoes of long-dead stars, their light still travelling through space and dotting the sky in a myriad of flickering pinpoints among the still living stars and planets. The bonfire reaches high up, red and orange sparks shooting, flying, soaring up into the air, mingling with the stars before they vanish.

He closes his eyes, allowing those mirrored worlds – that of the stars and that of the sparks – to envelop him and make sense.

Warm lips press to his exposed neck, and he opens his eyes, startled by the touch and the instant surge of craving that sweeps through him. Dean throws him a playful, pleased smirk, his green eyes gleaming with deep, dark, almost brown gold in the firelight, and Castiel gasps, mesmerized by the hue. But then Dean leans in again and lays another kiss on his neck, warm tongue flicking out for s brief moment, and Castiel can't stop a quiet moan as his eyes flutter closed.

"You're a goddamn gorgeous knight," Dean rumbles into the skin on his neck, sending a tingling shiver through Castiel's body. Dean apparently feels it, because he smiles into Castiel's neck and nips at the pulse point, causing Castiel's breath to hitch.

He manages to gather enough consciousness to pull away, looking into Dean's eyes as he rises from the ground. Dean's eyes gleam with puzzlement for just one moment, before eager understanding lights them up, and he grins in a playfully wicked way, following Castiel.

No one notices them leave, apart from Sam who throws them a disgusted face, which Dean snickers at.

They tread through the darkness, the merry chatter around the bonfire ebbing away into damp, velvety silence, the firelight vanishing completely, and they can only hear their breaths and thudding footsteps. The parking lot looms in sight soon, just a tangle of lines of moonlight reflected in windows and angled lines of hoods and roofs.

As they locate the Impala, Dean pulls Castiel into an eager kiss, and Castiel moans as Dean bites on his lower lip, and he opens his mouth to meet Dean's warm tongue. He wraps his arms around Dean's waist and shoulders, he wants to be close, closer, their elaborate outfits becoming a nuisance, and he curls his fingers into Dean's tunic. His beloved grips the hair on the back of his head, the tugging sending a pleasant sensation shooting across Castiel's skin, and angles his head to take the kiss even deeper, causing them both to moan.

Dean's breath is hot over his cheek and neck as they pull away, and Castiel shudders, his skin flaring with unbearable want, and he attacks the belt wrapped around Dean's waist, his beloved chuckling a little at his eagerness, but the chuckle turns into a moan when Castiel leans in and lays kisses on his neck. The moan reverberates through Castiel's mouth, he can almost taste it along with the sharp spice of Dean's heated skin.

The buckle finally comes loose, and Castiel leans away from Dean just to pull the tunic off over his head, Dean obediently lifting his hands before he unties the cape from across Castiel's chest. Dean fishes through his trousers pockets to pull out the Impala keys, and unlocks the car, then opens the back door, and they both clamber inside, pressing close for Dean to shut the door closed.

The chain mail is a little tricky to take off, but they manage relatively fast, throwing it onto the floor along with boots and soon shirts, and Castiel at last runs his hands over Dean's chest, feeling the outlines of muscles and ribs, the skin like hot velvet, a pleasure to touch. Dean moans, closing his eyes, the sound curling a tight ball of need in the pit of Castiel's stomach. He launches at Dean, kissing and nipping at the skin on his chest and collarbone, and trails a long lick in between his pectoral muscles, collecting the addictive, tangy taste of his flesh, feeling the new, deep moan on his tongue.

"Cas… oh, damn it, Cas…" Dean groans, his hands sliding up and down Castiel's sides incoherently, as if looking for something, before they grip his hips, only to fervently start pushing his trousers down, along with the underwear.

Soon they are both naked, writhing together, relishing the skin on skin contact, Dean trapped beneath him, and Castiel pants, looking through the darkness at the deliciously flushed cheeks, puffy lips, and the electrifying, thin ring of green framing the open, hungry blackness of Dean's pupils. He can feel hands roaming over his back and sides, exploring, roving, brushing over all the sensitive spots he hadn't realised he had before Dean touched them each for the first time.

One of Dean's hands skims up his side, over his shoulder, reaching his cheek, and a thumb brushed over Castiel's lower lip, causing him to close his eyes for a moment.

"Look at you…" Dean's whisper is husky and hot. "So gorgeous…"

"Dean…" he moans, heat coiling in his chest, and he dives in, clashing their mouths together, Dean eagerly wrapping his arms around his neck, arching up into him, pressing their bodies in a way that makes Castiel moan again, pushing his hips against Dean's, creating glorious friction between their erections. "Dean, I want you…"

"I've got you, Cas."

As Dean reaches down between their bodies, Castiel has only one more coherent thought before he's lost – that he very definitely wants to participate in those LARPing events more often.

* * *

**The Impala comes to the rescue yet again ;)**

**Next chapter - a bit more Charlie, Dean trims Cas' hair, and _Princess Bride_ is watched.**

**Keep up the reviews, those fluffy balls of joy make me do my special geeky happy dance :D**


	16. As you wish

**Terribly sorry for the delay, real life gets in the way of what's important. Ugh.**

**Thank you again for all your lovely reviews, they absolutely brighten my day! I hope you enjoy this chapter, too :)**

* * *

**16. As you wish**

There are definite upsides to Charlie deciding to hang out with them for another day at the Batcave (they've got four to play poker, someone finally understands all the awesome references Dean makes, and she's just fun to be around), but there are just as definite downsides. One of them, is keeping their adoptive sister entertained.

"We're not playing Risk, Charlie," Dean rules out, shaking his head.

"C'mon, why not?"

"Because Cas always wins, and believe me, that gets old real fast," explains Dean, because yeah – constantly being pushed off the map by Cas embarrassingly soon into the game, is entertaining for only so long before it gets damn tedious to say the least.

Cas shoots him an actual friggin bitchface (_Sammy, you and I are having a talk_), but Dean remains unfazed.

"C'mon, dude, you're just sulking cause I always beat you to the second place," Sam grins, and Dean glares (he doesn't bitchface, he glares. Manly). Charlie laughs. Dean grits his teeth.

"Pick something else," he instructs.

There's another game they never-ever play – the game _Sorry!_, because it's just too much to deal with, for both Dean and Cas. When they'd found the stack of board games in the Batcave, Dean took the _Sorry!_ and dropped it off at the local library for kids. He sort of couldn't just throw it away, but he never wanted to see this crap ever again either.

Eventually, they settle on Monopoly. Now _that_ Dean can play, even with Sammy's built-in-head calculator being his adversary. Cas is unpredictable in this game – sometimes he'll do extremely well (it _is_ a strategy game, after all), and sometimes he'll get confused, thinking too much about how some rules of the game don't make sense (particularly when he picks the 'go to jail' card), and will lose extremely sadly.

Now appears to be one of those times, because Charlie is definitely winning, while Dean follows second (suck it, Sammy!), and Cas accepts defeat in a very zen kind of way, causing Sam to look at him like he's a sick puppy with no one to take care of him.

"Yes!" Charlie throws her fists into the air as she reaches the first million, which ends the game. "Suck it, bitches! Don't mess with the queen!"

"You are very skilled in this game," Cas admits as they're clearing up the game. That is, Dean dumps all of his cards and money into the box, while Cas Cinderellas through the stuff, meticulously segregating and putting each card, note and piece in the appropriate compartment. Dean sees a connection between this, and Cas' habit of putting syrup on his waffles by scrupulously filling each square separately. He wonders if he perhaps should worry.

"Aww, don't worry, you'll get good at it eventually," Charlie pats Cas' hand, but he just gives her the puzzled head tilt.

"I am not upset losing," he assures. Charlie coos at him.

Dean and Castiel make quick supper, and because Dean is feeling generous (and Cas is always so very willing to do something for others), they make enough quick, cool stuff to feed the whole four. There's some fruit for Sammy (Cas made that, the golden-hearted guy, Sam better be grateful), hearty, proper ham sandwiches for Dean and Charlie, and Cas has a little bit of both food groups served. It's all rounded off with chips, crackers, salty pretzels – normal TV-watching stuff, as they all get as comfortable as the whole four can, on the sofa, and put on _Jurassic Park_, per Charlie's insistence. A beer bottle per each, they watch the movie contently, with only one fight over the last pretzel (Dean wins by pulling on Sammy's princess locks).

The movie goes on, Dean grinning as he watches the familiar scenes (and those special effects still hold up pretty good today). Cas is absolutely mesmerized, his attention so entirely consumed by the movie that he gets an almost permanent head tilt. He also unexpectedly bursts out laughing at random moments, when something apparently is amusing for someone who's seen dinosaurs first hand and then waved bye-bye to them as they went up in flames. He seems particularly amused by the idea of supplementing the DNA chain by other reptilian genes.

Overall, despite some petty technicalities (_'That was not the Tyrannosaurus rex's attack strategy'_), Cas' impression of the movie seems very favourable, and he ponders a bit long on the whole theme of human hubris for meddling with the course of Nature. He makes some very zen remarks that make Dean kind of question his place in the universe, which is when Dean decides it's time for bed.

"C'mon, huggy-bear," he chuckles, pulling Cas up from the sofa when his angel yawns wide. It's half past one am. "Let's get you to bed."

"It was a very, very philosophically poignant movie…" Cas muses, looking half-asleep, and wearing that slightly drunk-looking smile he sometimes sports, and then tops up his comment with a hippo yawn. Dean likes the way his nose wrinkles.

"Yeah. An eye-opener. G'won, get your ass in the shower. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Dude – bathroom walls are thin, and they have air vents!" Sam instantly tenses up in a bitch mode, pulling a face at Dean who digs through the sofa, looking for his phone. He flips Sammy off without looking.

"Aw, c'mon, nothing wrong with some lovin'," Charlie grins at Sam who presses his lips together in that prude bitchface of a Victorian lady presented with a bathing suit.

"You have no idea what things I've heard," he says in a very tight voice.

"Geez, Sammy, you make us sound like we're friggin porn stars," Dean rolls his eyes, snatching his phone as he finally locates it.

"Thank god, no, but sometimes you're skimming close to it. Like that time at the motel, when-"

"Hey, hey!" Dean growls. "Not my fault we had bathrooms with a shared wall!"

"Yeah, well, not mine either, but I'm the one who needs memory bleach," Sam rubs his temples, looking very uncomfortable.

"Yeah, whatever, bitch," Dean waves a dismissive hand as he leaves.

"Jerk."

"Goodnight, Charlie."

"Night, Dean!" Charlie beams, and as Dean walks away, he can hear her turning to his whining brother. "So, Sam – just you and me. What are we watching next?"

Dean smiles, heading for his and Cas' bedroom. It's nice to sometimes have someone more in the Batcave. And he's glad that Charlie and Cas get along so well. Speaking of his huggy-bear – Dean's smile broadens into a grin as he sees their bathroom door is left ajar, and he ventures in, already pulling his T-shirt off over his head and dropping it onto the floor, in clear contrast to Cas' habit of neatly folding each article and placing it in the hamper.

Cas is standing in front of the mirror, deliciously naked, and he's tilting his head at a weird (and possibly health-hazardous) angle, trying to comb out a small knot that had appeared in his hair, where Cas managed to get some honey from his sandwich (how he did it, though, is a mystery).

Dean chuckles, shucking off his jeans and boxers, and walks up behind his angel, sliding his arms around his waist, gently pulling Cas back against his torso, and he noses the crook of Cas' neck, before dropping a kiss there. Cas hums, relaxing a little, and finally gets rid of the sticky knot.

"Dude, you need a trim," Dean chuckles, rocking their bodies from side to side gently, and catches Cas' eyes in the mirror.

The mess of black hair is wild again, the bangs falling over Cas' forehead, and a cold, piercing feeling pulses through Dean, causing him to raise a hand and push back Cas' hair into the familiar arrangement. It's just too much, too close – Cas, human, having had his foot injured, wearing other stuff than just his Holy Tax Accountant getup, and now the hair. Dean knows it's nothing, they've had a long talk (well, Cas did most of the talking) about this, Cas explained how Zachariah made a lot of generous assumptions in his director's cut version of 2014, he knows all those things that have recently happened are just 'isolated variables', as Cas calls them, but still…

He just can't.

He can't stand remembering this shit, remembering Cas so broken and mangled and torn, and Lucifer wearing his kid brother's hide, and the world being plunged into a grizzly finale. He can't, he doesn't want to see things reminding him of that, even if he knows it's not gonna happen.

Meanwhile, Cas is eyeing his own hair with a puzzled look in the mirror, before turning his gaze to Dean, luckily too late to catch Dean's little moment of despair and PTSD. Dean drops another kiss on his neck.

"I never thought about it," Cas muses, and Dean hums, nuzzling the spot. "Though I suppose it's only natural now."

"Yeah. I mean, not much difference going on there yet, but it's been almost half a year," Dean kisses his ear, and hugs him tighter to his own body. "Don't worry, you're gonna be fine. I used to cut Sammy's hair all the time when we were kids, before he went off and decided to be Pocahontas."

"I trust you, Dean," Cas says with a small smile, looking into Dean's eyes in the mirror so steadily and openly, and his tone is so simple and open and truthful that Dean's throat closes up a little bit.

Because Cas does shit like that, he says something simple and plain about those little, everyday things, and he says them so warmly and steadily that suddenly they mean everything. So, so much more.

But Dean's not gonna tear up over a goddamn amateur hairdressing plan, dammit, so he just hums an agreement.

"C'mon," he nudges his hips into Cas' ass a little. "Shower and bed. I wanna go to sleep early, to catch at least my four hours in case Charlie wakes us up at sunrise for whatever reason."

* * *

She doesn't. She leaves the next day, doling out three rounds of hugs and leaving a small stack of video games and DVDs as a parting gift (well, a parting loan – she threatens she'll be back for those, and she'd better get them back as immaculate as she's left them), and promises to visit again next month. Apparently, she's planning to spend the winter in the south. She also got in touch with a few other hunters, looking into cases, helping with research. Dean is damn pleased, but at the same time he hopes she knows what she's doing. This shit just isn't healthy – he, Sammy and Cas are the (miraculously) living proof of that.

Before Charlie left, though, she'd had them all take a group picture of themselves with a Polaroid unearthed once in the bunker. They huddled together, Dean using the opportunity to do that corny shit he's always secretly wished he could do – he wrapped his arms around Cas from behind, pressing their cheeks together, while Charlie almost failed to give Sam rabbit ears, because he's just too tall for that. The picture turned out great, with Sam grinning like he used to so long, long ago, like he has no care in the world. Dean feels bittersweet looking at his little brother's face so freely happy. Charlie is reaching up, just barely managing the rabbit ears, and she's grinning just as widely. Cas is staring into the camera almost soulfully, a smile on his lips and some interest in his eyes, while Dean holds him close. Damn, they look horridly adorable together, but also awesomely good.

The picture is ceremoniously stuck to the fridge with a magnet as soon as the image fully emerges (Cas loves watching the process, Dean makes a mental note to watch _Memento_ with him – then again, maybe not a good idea, what with the whole memory-loss-and-Naomi ordeal), and then Charlie is off.

They clean up after breakfast (well, Sam does – Dean loathes doing that, but at the same time he will always get pissed when Sam puts his cups, plates and pans away in weird-ass places and Dean has trouble finding them when he cooks later), and Dean grins, clasping his hands together as he stands in front of Castiel who still doesn't look fully awake, sporting his customary sleeping bee T-shirt and boxers. Large blue eyes peer at him with trust and puzzlement. Dean's heart goes dangerously soft.

"Alright! Get in the shower, get your hair wet, I'll get some scissors, and we'll start cutting."

Sam's upper half abruptly leans back out of the kitchen, eyes wide.

"Uh, Dean… you sure that's a good idea?"

"What?" bites Dean, sensing Sam is daring to doubt his grooming skills. "Not happy with all the haircuts I gave you when you were a kid?"

"Yeah, exactly, that's what I was – a kid. A kid in the eighties. Looking weird was the norm."

Dean seethes. Cas shifts his weight from one foot to another, looking spooked.

"Dean, perhaps-"

"Get in the shower," Dean points away, and Cas, with some more hesitation, walks away.

Sam is wearing a very smug, shit-eating grin.

"Thanks a lot, bitch," Dean growls. "Now he's gonna think I'll turn him into a Hare Krishna. And those haircuts were OK., you whiny pinhead, I was eight when I first did it, and it was a damn fne work."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm eternally grateful. No, seriously, Dean, you did OK., just uh… It's been a while. That's what I meant. Not that you were bad, just that – you haven't done it in a long time."

"Just like riding a bike, Sammy," Dean reaches into the fridge and pops open a bottle of orange juice.

"OK.," Sam says with that light, small, bitchy smile, eyes friggin cast down, eyebrows raised. Dean hates that face. "I'm just saying, you've obviously got hell of a kink for his hair, so don't come crying to me when you screw this up."

Dean hurls the bottle cap at him. Sam skedaddles away, cackling.

Five minutes later, Dean's got Cas towelled off, dressed and perched on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror. Dean grins, throwing the towel around his shoulders – nothing bad in playing around a little bit. Cas still looks a little uneasy, thanks to Dean's bitch of a brother.

"Dude, relax," Dean chuckles, grabbing a comb, and begins to run it through those gorgeous black strands, trying to make them tidy and lined up nicely to reduce mishap risks to minimum. "I'm not gonna cut off your ear."

"Your reassurance is most relieving," Cas mutters dryly, and Dean chuckles again, pushing his head down as he works on the area on the nape of his neck.

"Seriously, man, it's not even gonna be a big difference."

"I understand."

Dean moves in front of Cas, combing his bangs down, dragging the thin, wet strands over his forehead, and he smirks. Cas looks kinda hot that way, eyes closed a little tight on an instinct, eyelashes fluttering just minutely from the small tension in his eyelids. He's frowning, looking so concentrated, that Dean can't help but drop a quick kiss on that bangs-covered forehead. One blue eye pops open, peering at Dean trustingly again.

"You wanna a magazine, baby?" he can't resist.

A storm cloud hovers over Cas' face, and he scowls at Dean's mockery as well as the petname. He's not fond of that one, which is a shame, because Dean actually likes it. Yeah, it's his own fault that Cas doesn't like it, but still – shame.

"Please get on with it. My nose is itchy."

Dean grins and playfully scratches Cas' nose with the comb, before picking up the scissors.

It goes moderately quick, with Dean telling Cas not to move, and Cas freezing on the spot, perched on the stool. Ten minutes in, Dean declares a short break, because he's kind of creeped out by Cas sitting so still his chest barely moves as he breathes.

And it is a bit like riding a bike (another thing to teach Cas, Dean thinks joyously, adding the new position to his growing list of Cas-education, he likes this list, because most of the things on it are fun and totally randomly normal, and allow them to forget their crap-fest of a general situation), Dean thinks – after a few tentative snips, he finds the right way to go about the whole operation. His hands do a better job at remembering than his brain does, but he's cool with it – so long as the result does not damage his angel's fabulous sex hair.

Carefully, section by section and making sure he's cropping evenly, Dean goes through Cas' shaggy mop of black hair. The bangs make him just a little bit nervous, since this is the part of Cas' hair that he's ready to worship, but he manages to trim it right.

He hopes.

With a final snip, he grins and theatrically yanks the towel off of Cas' shoulders and rubs it over his head, grinning at Cas' mangled grunt muffled by the soft fabric.

"There," he announces, lifting the towel. "You're gorgeous," it's meant as a joke, but it's also the truth – always. He nudges Cas up and turns him towards the mirror, and grins over his shoulder as they both stare at the reflection.

Cas' hair is even more wild than usual, the strands sharp and slender, spiky because of the dampness still residing in them, and the sheer, complete blackness brought on by the water, makes Castiel's eyes even larger, and thrillingly electric blue. Dean has to bite back a moan that strains somewhere in his throat.

"I think… it does look good. I suppose we'll have to wait till it's dry again."

"I did an awesome job, man, relax," Dean grins. "You're welcome. If you wanna leave a tip, go right ahead," he leers nonchalantly, pulling back the waistband of his jeans, and arches his eyebrows smugly at Cas.

Cas turns around to face Dean, his head tipping contemplatively to side as he peers at Dean's thumb hooked behind the waistband, and lifts his gaze. A small smirk curls those delicious, full lips, and a dangerous imp gleams through his eyes. Dean's blood abruptly rushes south.

Still wearing that cheeky smirk, Cas slowly dips his hands into the space between Dean's jeans and abdomen, dragging up, fingertips curling into the fabric of Dean's tee and pulling it along, and Dean finally lets go of his waistband and lifts his arms as Cas pulls the shirt off of him. Those subtle but strong hands slowly glide down Dean's torso, smoothly trailing the muscles, and Dean's skin tingles and turns hot under the touch. It feels like Castiel's hands caress some sensuous light into his flesh, and Dean's mouth falls open a little way as his breathing deepens.

He's definitely hard when Cas slowly, unhurriedly – the bastard! – pops the button of his jeans, fingertips again dipping below the waistband, but just teasing, brushing over Dean's hypersensitive skin, and Dean fucking _whimpers_, the imp in Castiel's eyes glimmering as his smirk moulds into a small grin. A hint of white teeth peeks wolfishly between those lush lips, and with a grunt Dean loses it, grabbing the back of Cas' neck and yanking him close, crushing their mouths together. He works his way into Cas' mouth and relishes the rich moan that he can almost taste. Their tongues slide together, twining, and when Cas bites down on Dean's lower lip, it sends a searing hot flare shooting through Dean's body, surging just under the surface of his flesh, heating it up, making it yearn for touch.

Cas is still fully dressed, and it's very wrong, the skin on Dean's chest burning for contact, so Dean pulls away from the hot, wet kiss and impatiently yanks the tee off of Cas, eager and panting. Cas, while dishevelled, with dark pink lips and wide blown pupils, manages to smirk, peering at Dean with hooded eyes with a fleck of some sort of sexy coldness, and Dean growls, wrapping his arms around Cas' waist and pulling him into another kiss.

Sometimes Cas gets like this, a tease, all smirks and prolonged but too light touches interspersed with occasional short shots of devastatingly intense pleasure that progressively turn Dean into a hot, whimpering mess, and he's _so_ friggin good at it that Dean doesn't even care about dignity or whatever as he writhes under Cas' touches.

He can feel it in the kiss, how Cas plays along but doesn't give Dean just what he loves best, and _damn_ is that man talented with his tongue…! And Cas' fingertips are again skimming just under Dean's waistband, brushing against his boxers and slowly travelling to the sides, rounding Dean's hips to meet just above his ass and begin to push the jeans off. The moves are slow, gently pressuring but not nearly enough to satisfy a craving they stir, and Dean is driven a little bit crazy just by the feeling of the jeans slowly pushed off over the curve of his ass, Cas' thumbs expertly hooked in the belt loops.

Son of a bitch leaves Dean's boxers on. Not breaking the kiss, Dean steps out of his jeans as they at last drop down his legs, and he grinds his hips into Cas' desperate for friction, and moans when he feels Cas is just as hard under his own jeans. He grabs that shapely ass and pulls him even closer, breaking the kiss to nibble on Cas' neck, feeling the gravely moan reverberate through his chest as it's pressed to Cas'.

Cas is still being a friggin cocktease, palms skimming up and down Dean's sides, brushing over that sensitive spot too lightly to actually bring any solid sensation, and Dean bites on Cas' neck for it. He moves his hands to the front of Cas' jeans, battling the button, unable to get the bastard out of the hole, and Cas' husky chuckle breathes hotly into his ear, causing him to let out an unabashed moan.

The button finally gives way, and Dean's yanking the jeans off of Cas along with the underwear, but before he can do anything else, Castiel grabs his wrists, those unfathomable, cosmic eyes staring into his, heavy, dark, with just a thin ring of electric blue framing the hungrily blown pupils. His hair is a wild mess, the strands sharp like pine needles, crossing his forehead, sticking out at all angles, and his full lips are swollen and reddened from all the kisses, a whimper straining in Dean's throat as he desperately wants to kiss them again.

Fingers dip beneath the elastic band of his boxers, beginning to slowly pull it down.

"I believe I was the one meant to be tipping you, Dean…" the promise-soaked rumble makes Dean's knees weak.

* * *

Ever since his crazy spree, Cas likes all things bee. It's a harmless fondness, and actually kinda cute – he's got that T-shirt he usually wears for bed, the one with a big, round, furry bee asleep in a flower and going 'Buzzzzzzz…', he eats honey out of a jar sometimes when watching TV, he's got a few other bee T-shirts (including the steampunk mechanical bee one Dean really likes), he's got a beehive design bookmark and a few other things like that. Dean likes this fondness and indulges Cas a little bit sometimes, for example by buying a small stuffed bee toy he'd once spotted at a baby shop he'd been passing on his way back from the groceries. It was a nice, soft toy, just the right size to fit in the palm of a hand, and it was made in a simple design, without any weird-ass adorable eyes or crap like that. So he bought it and gave it to Cas who now keeps it on the nightstand by their bed, and occasionally carries it in his trench coat pocket.

So yes, the whole bee thing makes Dean smile a bit when he sees it happen, because it's very Cas and very cute.

But he's a little bit bothered by the small booklet he finds on the kitchen table one day. He'd been out to the gas station to refill the Impala, and came back to a quiet Batcave, calling out for his brother and angel. The book had caught his eye when he went in for some orange juice.

It's a small, thin booklet, looking very harmless (and he knows the difference, he's seem some very damn harmful books in his life), but the title is kinda disturbing.

_Beehive care_.

"Uh, Cas?" he calls out again, picking up the thing and flipping through the pages. Instructions on building a hive, cleaning it, caring for the bees and shit. "Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?" even if not an angel anymore, Cas still can creep up on Dean completely unnoticed. He should buy his boyfriend a bell.

"Tell me we're not getting a pet," Dean holds up the book, tilting his head threateningly.

Cas squints at the book title, and then smiles a little way, walking up closer.

"No, it was a gift from Sam, he thought it would be amusing. I agree," a small flash of teeth – Dean freaking loves those mini grins, they're almost wolfish, almost impish. And then there are those rare, soft grins, full of fondness and amusement, when Cas' whole face just beams. Dean wishes he could see them more often.

"Huh," he flips through the book once more and then puts it back on the table. "Good."

He holds out his juice glass to Cas who smiles gratefully and lovingly, and takes a small sip. It's so normal and so simple, such a small, ordinary thing… yet it warms Dean's heart.

"Alright, come on," he snaps out of his mushy thoughts before he gets too chick-flick. "Charlie left us _Princess Bride_, and you _have to_ watch that, dude," he slings an arm around Cas' shoulders and steers him out of the kitchen, to what serves as the living room.

Cas takes his place on the sofa, while Dean performs the ritual of loading the DVD into the player and naturally (and dumbly) trying if he can skip past the warnings and infomercials (he can't). He settles beside Cas on the sofa, pulling him close, and playfully blows into his black hair, grinning when Cas huffs, throwing him a brief, irritated glance. The haircut turned out great (Dean knew he'd do awesome, Sam can stuff it), and Dean likes to feel territorial about it every now and then. No matter how idiotic and abstract that sounds when even thought.

Castiel focuses on the movie as Dean stops amusing himself with his hair – as grateful as he is for the haircut, he'd like to view the film in peace. It starts off intriguing, the opening scene set in times modern to the film's making, showcasing a sick boy playing an incredibly crude video game, and Castiel tilts his head in interest. He'd been led to believe by Dean that the movie is about a fairytale.

It all becomes clear moments later, when the grandfather begins to read the book to the boy. He has a pleasant voice, and Castiel listens to his narration with great, peaceful enjoyment.

_"That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying 'As you wish', what he meant was, 'I love you'._"

The story unfolds, and Castiel finds himself becoming engrossed in it, his interest all the while painted with pleasant, cheery enjoyment, the upbeat vibe of the tale seeping into him. He laughs at some comedy moments, and Dean rewards those amusement outlets with kisses, which makes the movie very greatly more enjoyable.

Sam joins them halfway through, grinning fondly at the movie, and Castiel sinks into this blessedly light moment, when the three of them leave their worries and concerns, and simply enjoy something together. As the movie rolls, Castiel enjoys himself more and more. He particularly likes the theme of the 'As you wish' phrase woven into the story, subtly and warmly carrying a variety of meanings, and serving to make a very beautiful ending to the movie itself.

As the credits roll, Sam hums and stretches, and raises off the sofa, claiming he has something to do. Castiel knows what it is, and he wishes Sam hadn't requested of him not to bring it up with Dean.

But his beloved doesn't seem particularly concerned at the moment. He lazily noses Castiel's neck, humming quietly.

"So, did you like it?" he asks, and brushes a soft kiss over Castiel's cheek.

"Very," Castiel replies earnestly. "It was very amusing, and the story was so engrossing and original despite the simplicity of the plot."

"So there's hope for you yet," Dean grins.

"Yes, now I understand what you found so amusing about Charlie yelling 'Inconceivable!'. Would you like beer?" he asks, rising from the sofa to fetch himself a bottle, since the one he'd nursed through the movie is long since empty.

"Oh, Cas, I like the way you think," Dean positively purrs, grinning. "Hey, what do you say we do some sparring before dinner?"

Castiel stops in the doorframe, looking at Dean over his shoulder, eyes a little narrowed by a smile that just barely brushes his lips as he holds his beloved's gaze with meaningfulness and wit.

"As you wish."

* * *

**There :) I had to do that ending, the ending of _Princess Bride_ is one of the best I've ever seen.**

**Next chapter - Dean finds out what Sam is up to, and that Cas was in on the secret... *cue dramatic music***

**Please review! Those fluffy specks of goodness help me get through some school stuff that unexpectedly popped up.**


	17. Secrets

**Damn, I am SO sorry for the horrible delay! Agh, I was away on a trip to the Land of No Reception, and when I came back my internet decided to crap out on me. I'm so, SO sorry I took so long to reply to all the reviews! And I am not abandoning this story, I just have to break through a block, and real life is acting up a bit. Sorry!**

**So here is the new chapter. I'm not thrilled with it, especially the ending. I like the beginning though. I hope you enjoy anyway :)**

**Please review :D**

* * *

**17. Secrets**

"Dammit, why can't kids stop playing that Bloody Mary crap?" Dean grouses, massaging his sore neck as he keeps one hand on the steering wheel. "Why do they say that shit if they think it's just a hoax anyway? Truth or dare, truth or dare… friggin morons," he growls, even though today's bitching rights officially belong to Cas, because he's the one who ended up with a shard of mirror in his left ass cheek.

The Bloody Mary they'd been hunting had been a real bitch. They drove around two states looking for the freaking mirror, only to be assaulted with exploding glass everywhere, because it ended up being a bloody _fair_. In a labyrinth of mirrors. And since each wall was constructed of several separate panels, they had to run around the friggin labyrinth, hitting mirrors at random (sometimes unintentionally and face-first, which seemed to be Sam's special technique that evening). All the while, bloody Bloody Mary kept exploding the mirrors at them, thus Castiel's injury.

Dean had been the one to yank out the shard, pushing Cas onto his stomach on the backseat of the Impala and ignoring his hesitant remarks about proper lighting and medical supplies. He put some peroxide from the bottle always stashed in the glove compartment, and told Cas to tough it out for the next ninety minute ride back home. The shard didn't get stuck in the actual seat of Cas' ass, but higher, so he could sit, though the word 'comfortably' was about as far from the list proper adjectives as possible, and each bump and pothole was marked with Cas' grunt of pain.

Actually, this whole thing is freaking hilarious, and half the time Dean has to bite his lip to keep from snorting. Cas' pained and pissed glare in the rear view mirror is just plain funny as he leans to the side, while Sam is still trying to cool off after a close encounter with a clown at the fair. The painted dude attacked Sammy by waving, and undeterred by his spluttering and violent stumbling backwards, stuck a balloon animal crown on Sam's head. If Cas hadn't been limping next to him, Dean would have whipped out his phone to immortalise the moment and later utilise it as their very own Christmas card.

Sam is still not speaking to him.

Finally, they arrive to the Men of Letters bunker and make their way inside, Cas scowling a little as he makes his way down the stairs.

"Cas, you OK?" Sam asks, peering at him with big eyes, eyebrows arranged into that pained-concerned expression.

"You mean besides my embarrassing and somewhat throbbing injury? I am fine, Sam."

Dean snickers. Cas has this supply of dry, sour snark and sarcasm that he sometimes trickles out when annoyed, bothered, or irritated with having his buttons pushed past his tolerance limit (the latter usually due to Dean).

"Sorry," Sam chuckles fondly. He then angles his head, trying to work out a crick in his neck, wincing as he apparently pulls at a sore muscle or tendon. He got thrown around a little bit in the labyrinth, they all did. "Damn. I forgot how much Bloody Marys suck," he grimaces and tries to massage the side of his neck.

"Yeah, a real _pain in the ass_, huh?" Dean grins, turning to Cas, beaming in search for understanding of the clever situational pun he'd just made.

He's met with narrowed eyes and lips pressed into a wry line. Castiel is not amused.

Dean raises his eyebrows encouragingly, still grinning, trying to coax out a favourable reaction, but none comes. Cue the crickets.

"Dude," Sam groans disapprovingly, while Cas continues to roast Dean alive with his narrow stare.

"Tough crowd," Dean mutters, making a funny face, and at last gives up. "OK., OK… Let's get your ass sterilised and we'll put a band-aid on that cut or something. Sammy, quit laughing."

"I'm not," his bitch of a brother tries to pull himself together, clearing his throat. The transference of Castiel's glare-of-death aids the process.

Half an hour later, after a quick shower and a quick and easy medical aid (Cas doesn't need stitches, thank god, because Dean seriously doesn't see himself doing the job, and no way in _hell_ Sam would be allowed to do it even if he was willing) which went well, because the cut isn't really deep or long, Cas is lying in their bed, sprawled comfortably on his belly, propped up on elbows and reading. Dean is buried into the covers beside him, texting Garth an update on the finished Bloody Mary case, and letting him know they're not taking another one for at least ten days. Cas can't exactly run around, chasing vamps and demons for at least a couple of days, and Kevin is supposed to pop by sometime next week.

Dean sends the text and reaches over Cas' back to deposit the phone on the nightstand which is perched by Cas' side of the bed. He hums a little, brushing his chest against Cas' shoulders, taking in his scent as he withdraws, nuzzling Cas' ear playfully.

"What are you reading?" he murmurs and nips gently at the shell of his ear. Not that he's trying to start anything, because obviously – no sexual activities of any kind tonight (dang).

"_The once and future King_ by T.H. White," Cas replies, eyes quickly sliding along the lines of text to reach the end of the paragraph, and he lifts his bright, enraptured gaze at Dean. "It's… very beautiful and engrossing."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" Dean amuses himself a little more with Cas' ear, nibbling softly on the lobe. It might look like he really doesn't give a shit about the book, but he does, he is interested, and he knows Cas knows it. It's good, this thing – this bond they have, the way he doesn't have to explain so many things, because Cas sees them even without words, or _especially_ because there are no words.

"It's a rendition of the Arthurian legends… well, actually this book is a one-volume compilation of all five books White had written about King Arthur. I'm currently midway through the second part. The story is written very entrancingly, it… stirs the emotions, but not the basic ones. It goes further, it… it… I like it. It's written almost as if the author could see through the vastness of the world. Like I can. And like I could."

"Cas…" Dean reaches out and grips a handful of Cas' hair, his throat closing up. He again can't say anything, he has this tight, intense ball lodged in his throat, but he can't push it out, he can't release the unknown words in it.

Castiel's eyes peer deeply, strongly into his.

"I'm not lamenting, Dean," he says, his gravelly voice steady and soft. "While I never will be happy with what I have done…" teeth dig into the supple flesh of his lower lip, dragging across, a spot of painful whiteness following the pressure, blue eyes flash with pain and resentment. "I am happy, ultimately, with what has happened to me. Or rather, with the position I ended up in. I told you once – I wouldn't have made such a choice myself. But now that this choice has been made for me, I am content being human. I am happy as long as you and Sam will have me."

Somehow, this is even worse, a tight pain lurching in Dean's chest and choking him. His grip on Cas' hair tightens, and he surges forward, burying his face in the side of Cas' neck, because he can't, he just _can't_ look into those blue eyes right now, not when they are so open and pure and express so much freaking _gratitude_ and longing!

"Cas…" that one word, that one syllable that means _everything_, manages to break through the dam was always had been walled up within Dean, partitioning his thoughts from his words. And this one word is like a link, a translation that connects the two dimensions, and which Castiel always, always understands.

He seems to understand it all now, too, because his weight shifts so he only uses one elbow for support, while with his free arm he reaches up, placing a hand over Dean's clutching his hair, and he leans in closer, rubbing his cheek against Dean's. There's a coarse scrape of stubble and a puff of warm, slow, steady breath washing over Dean's ear.

"Cas, we'll always have you," Dean mumbles into Castiel's neck. "You hear me? Always. Cursed or not."

It's all he can say, and it's lame and tacky and brings a flashback and doesn't even remotely convey all the things he feels and thinks, but he knows again that Cas understands. Or at least he hopes so.

His hope warms and stabilises into certainty when Cas' arm wraps around him and he presses closer despite the awkward angle, nuzzling into Dean, and whispers 'Thank you'.

* * *

Four days later Cas is practically well again, but doesn't accompany Dean on a quick run for snacks, because his favourite show (cartoon, _Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends_) is on. Dean tries to take losing to TV gracefully, and vengefully decides to forget buying Cas his honey-dipped sweet pretzels. The firm intentions of revenge last for a whole fifteen minutes drive to the store, where they instantly melt away when Dean imagines the hurt, sad eyes of the last puppy left all alone in a 'Free to a home' box.

He grabs two bags of the damn pretzels, on the sideline wondering if there's anything he could say 'no' to Cas about (there isn't).

His breath is a puff of steam as he shuts the Impala's door, plastic bag dangling in his hand. The air is chilly, not pinching cold yet, but penetrating and undefeated, seeping through his clothes and even his shoes. It's damp and just beginning to smell of an oncoming frost travelling from the far north, and Dean takes a deep breath into his lungs. It tastes awful, making him think of long cold months ahead (though there is an upside of entertaining the idea that maybe the heater will break and he will have to spend days warming up Cas by body heat), and reminds him they have to make a winter clothes trip with Cas.

October is ending.

Dean makes his way into the bunker, grunting contently at the warmth that instantly greets him, but he can't get the nasty coldness out of his clothes. It seems to stick like the smell of a smoke.

He makes his way into what they've arranged to be the living room, but the TV is turned off and Cas is no longer on the sofa where Dean had left him (bundled up freaking _adorably_ in a blanket, big blue eyes glued faithfully to the screen).

In the kitchen, he finds Sam who promptly ends a phone call he's having, and slips his phone into his pocket, shoulders tense as he tries to look relaxed (the last time that kid relaxed, was when Dean held him over his shoulder and burped him). Dean passes him by, dropping the bag onto the counter, and begins to unload the snacks.

"Hey," he says, forcing himself to keep it cool and closed off. Sam is up to something, after all this time, after all those screw-ups and fuck-ups and apocalypses, he's up to something _again_, and he's not telling Dean about it, and it fucking _hurts_ and makes him want to scream and throw plates in the wall and shit, and he can't, and there's tight, clenching pressure locked up at the top of his chest, just below his throat, and he can't get it out.

"Hey."

He remembers Sam from just months ago, pale, clammy, red-eyed and with dead hovering lazily above him, brushing over him, and he just kept on going, kept on digging his own grave, not caring at all when he realised he was doing it. And Dean suddenly can't swallow, and he has to grip the orange juice bottle a bit tight to get a hold of himself.

"Who you were talking to?" he asks, his voice coldly nonchalant as he doesn't make eye contact with Sam, busy taking out the snacks, not caring that his tone is blatantly fake, a shoddily hidden provocation. He wants Sam to see it, he wants him to take the challenge, he wants a clash, a fight, something _anything_, he wants the dam to finally break, so they can shout or even kick each other's asses, and then sit down and work the shit out together once Cas steps in and pulls them apart.

(He can't do that so easily now, he's not strong enough anymore…)

"Uh, Crowley," Sam replies with an audible shrug as stiff as Dean's neck.

"Huh."

"Yeah, he's getting better, I guess. Apparently, he fixed Bobby's house, looks like he's still got enough demon juice. And he didn't start crying even once."

"That's good, Sammy," Dean shoves three boxes of chocolate chip cookies into a cupboard, voice steady and smooth because it's taut to the limits.

Sam's lying. Everything he'd just said might as well be true, and probably came up in the conversation he'd just had with Crowley, but it's not _all_ they'd talked about. These are just details, an insignificant surplus that Sam throws at Dean as a smoke screen so that he doesn't ask questions.

Dean knows that kid. This is something he does when he wants to hide something, he gives away some worthless information to redirect the focus, and keeps silent about the big thing. Normally, he wouldn't have volunteered any information about Crowley, or at the very least he'd whine about something. He wouldn't have that plastic positive look on his face. He'd rub his eyes and groan and wait for Dean to ask if it was Crowley again.

Slamming the cupboard shut, Dean turns around, leaning his ass back against the countertop, his face steady and calm as he looks at Sam, but his gaze is direct, hard and challenging, with a hint of cold, mocking, mirthless amusement, daring Sam to hold his gaze and still pretend there was nothing more to his phone chat. And Dean can't stand this anymore, not secrets, not again, not this time, not after he so very nearly lost both Sam and Cas in one ruthless go. He's just had it up to here with hiding crap, and he's fucking _tired_ of it, too tired and bitter to even get mad.

So when he sees Sam shift a little, thin lips pressing into an even thinner line, big hazel eyes swimming with loyalty and worry as he begins to crack, Dean decides to screw it all, and he looks away from Sam, focusing on the empty doorway.

"Cas, get your ass in here, I got you your damn pretzels and I expect gratitude!" he hollers, like everything is a-okay, letting Sam off the hook. The moment is gone, but Sam radiates some sinking feeling of regret. He can shove it. Dean's had enough.

A moment later, Cas ventures into the kitchen, nose buried in a book (he's finished that _Once and Future King_ thing, now he's on _The Outsiders_ by E.S. Hinton, because Dean told him to read it) which he looks up from to take one bag of the pretzels. He looks into Dean's eyes with a small smile, and then obediently leans in to kiss him on the cheek, since Dean had demanded gratitude. Dean snorts and playfully shoves him off, causing a brief glimpse of white teeth to flash in between Cas' full lips in a quick grin.

It makes Dean feel a little bit better.

* * *

"Apparently, Crowley fixed Bobby's house," Dean tells Cas later, as they're settling into their bed.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Sammy talked to him. Looks like we're gonna have to visit or something."

"Is that bad?" large blue eyes flash to Dean worriedly.

"Not really, I guess," Dean wraps his arms around Cas and pulls him close. He's feeling needy tonight, and not even in the sex department – he just wants closeness, he wants to feel Cas being with him and not going anywhere. "I just kinda don't see myself having a tea party with the guy," he gently tightens his hold around Cas, pulling him back against his chest. They're not really spooning, because Dean's gonna be damned if he ever tries that crap, but it's nice and comfortable – he's laying back, pillows propping him up a little, and Cas is snuggled close.

"I think Crowley would prefer his whiskey," Cas observes soberly, and Dean chuckles, nuzzling the back of his neck.

"Yeah. I just mean it's… weird, I guess."

Castiel shifts his weight and rolls over in Dean's loose embrace, till he's facing him, propped up on an elbow dug into the mattress, head tilted, blue eyes squinting a little in that familiar, trademark look of all-penetrating focus. It's a gaze that sears through Dean's flesh and soul and sees all of him, and it's become soothing in its familiarity.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's weird, man," Dean grimaces. "I mean, he's always tried to kill us or screw us or both. And now we're supposed to be best friends?"

"Dean, I don't think we're going to be 'best friends', as you put it, with Crowley," an echo of a smirk quirks up the corners of Cas' lips, and a small, quick move of his jaw betrays that he's biting the inside of his cheek to hold back amusement. Dean's prepared to get offended with him. "And also… he's…" there's a moment of pensive, half-frustrated hesitation, where Cas' thought escapes and he looks for a way to translate it into human terms – Dean has seen it happen so many times, and each makes him feel bonded to Castiel even stronger. They both fail to put their ideas into words. "He's… uh… not the same person he was when he did everything you and Sam resent him for."

"Wait – so you don't resent him?" Dean frowns, lifting his head off the pillow. Castiel slowly shakes his head.

"I had forgiven him, and I was sincere when I did it."

"Dude-"

"Because of what I just told you. He is… a different person now. Morally speaking. If he still was the same, I wouldn't have forgiven him. But since the cure has changed him so much, and he is different now, I can't hold a grudge against him."

Dean wants to say 'You're a saint', but bites his stupid-ass tongue just in time. That'd be skating a bit too close to the thin ice (and the gaping airhole) of Cas' stolen angel status. Therefore, he eloquently substitutes the words with an unconvinced grunt.

Castiel's lips twitch in a small smile again (one of those 'humans are enjoyably limited' ones, but Dean lets it slide), and he leans in to press a slow, lazy kiss to Dean's chest. Dean smiles. Some lazy mornings, Cas likes to amuse himself by nuzzling and kissing the myriad of tiny freckles on Dean's chest, and Dean relishes the soft, idle caresses and occasionally tickling touches. Cas very visibly loves his freckles, everywhere they are, and damn can he be attentive! And rightly so – everybody loves freckles, right?

"I think you will grow to that view in time," Cas hums into his skin, killing the mood a little bit.

"Thanks, huggy-bear," Dean mutters dryly, which earns him a half-apologetic kiss in between his pectoral muscles.

He absentmindedly rubs a thumb up and down, up and down where his hand is spread on Cas' lower back. Talking about Crowley makes him think of Sam. Or rather, thinking about Sam made him talk about Crowley. Because while he was sure for some time that Sam is up to something, now he's also pretty damn certain Sam is up to something _with Crowley_.

And that just brings memories of too much shit – soullsess Sam, both of them being Crowley's little bitches in business, Cas working with Crowley… It's still too much for him to just go all Hakuna Matata about it. Cas may be able to do it, because he's human only physically, his mind will always be the mind of an angel, a free-thinking, free-willed angel, but still an angel, his ways of seeing the world are probably so incomprehensible and all-engulfing that Dean's brain would pop like a short-circuited lightbulb if he thought about it too hard.

And now Sam is going behind his back again.

"Sam's up to something," he informs the ceiling gruffly, and is almost surprised to hear how tired his own voice sounds. "Think Crowley might be involved?"

Castiel stops nuzzling Dean's collarbone, freezing, motionless, his lips hovering just above Dean's skin.

"Cas?"

"I'm experiencing a conflict of loyalties," comes the gravelly, serious reply.

"What?" Dean abruptly props himself up, half-sitting up against his pillow, Cas pulling away with a repressed sigh, a worry line forming between his black eyebrows.

"Sam has asked…" Cas trails off, looking away, and with a coldly sinking feeling Dean realises that he's stopping himself from ratting Sammy out, that Sammy fucking went and _told_ Cas everything, and then _asked him_ not to tell Dean anything…

"Cas. Boyfriend trumps best friend. Tell me," he demands, a tone he rarely – never, really – uses with Cas, but his nerves feel taut beyond endurance, and he knows he will snap in a moment, when he hears the story, he will snap and explode and screw everything up.

But Cas frowns a little, tilting his head as his mind seems to catch on something else.

"I don't consider you my 'boyfriend', Dean, you're my Mate," he can hear the capitalised 'M' in Cas' voice, and it does something to his heart, something really good and really strong, but he can't right now… and even if he could, he wouldn't have the words to say what he wants.

"Alright… so Mate trumps best friend even more."

Castiel releases a small sigh, chewing on his lower lip worriedly, pensively.

"Sam has… an idea about the demons. About an… _alternative way_ of getting rid of them all. Something that could replace the plan of closing the Gates of Hell."

Dean's attention is taut and sharp as he absorbs every single word and syllable Castiel speaks in a pensive, gravelly tone. He weighs each word carefully, fitting them together like pieces of a puzzle, the cosmic, blue eyes looking into Dean's, seeking to reaffirm the understanding.

For his part, Dean is lying perfectly still, unable to move but not stiff, simply frozen and incapable of any action, even blinking as he steadily returns Castiel's gaze, frowning minutely as he grasps to understand, skidding over the surface of the words he's hearing. Castiel's hand rests gentle but heavy over his chest, steady and unmoving, and it feels as if it's leaving another handprint on Dean's skin.

"He has been conducting research on the subject, having gotten an idea and developed a theory… and recently he also began consulting with Crowley, since it's about the demons," Castiel speaks on, his pace neither picking up nor slowing, but somehow Dean senses a build-up in his tone, a progressive rise that thickens in Dean's chest correspondingly, and he doesn't know if he's in suspense or in resignation, and he can't even move… "Sam thinks…" Castiel needs a vague sigh to push the words out of his throat. "…there is a way to get rid of all the demons. It wouldn't be through the Trials, but the end result would be… _effectively tantamount_ to completing the Trials. Only, due to none of us actually completing them, Sam wouldn't die, nor anyone else for that matter."

Dean feels the words sink into him, one by one, like pebbles into a bottomless well – they sink, but they don't quite hit bottom, somehow they don't reach him completely, even if they continue to echo in his head. They sink, and sink, and sink, and he's sinking with them, something slowly beginning to spiral in his head, and he can't tell anymore whether it's something good or bad.

Castiel's eyes are attentive, boring into his, fathomless, devoted blue, and Dean is sinking into them like the words sink into his mind.

"Sam has an idea that we could… somehow administer the cure to all Demons, through something that connects them. Possibly a source they all come from, because there is indeed such a thing," Cas' gravelly voice is soft but heavy, and Dean feels a cold lurch of panic shoot through him as an inevitable thought follows the words he's just heard.

"Lucifer?" he asks, his voice coming out as a cracked, choked whisper which then crumples into a sharp jolt of relief as Cas shakes his head.

"No… well, not directly. There allegedly is something that Lucifer used to make his demons – it is like an element that each demon has in itself. If the cure could somehow be administered to that element, it would affect all the demons simultaneously. And it wouldn't constitute as completing the Trials."

"How do you know?" a bolt of red anger zaps through Dean's chest, up his throat and bursting out his mouth as he frowns, voice harsh. "How the hell do you know, Cas?! What if it does, and Sam dies?!"

"That's one of the reasons he's been researching so much, and why he's wanted Crowley's help, and plans to ask for Kevin's, too."

"And yours," Dean bites out, a bitter taste welling up in his mouth. He wants to move away from Cas, he wants him to take his hand off his chest, his skin begins to burn with an unbearable itch there…

Blue eyes flash down, guilty, resigned, and almost angry.

"Yes." Short, curt, simple. Angelically emotionless. Then the eyes look up again, into Dean's, and he's hit with a wave of raw emotion, a longing and desperate wish for something, something so strong that it catches Dean's breath. "And I told Sam I also had been thinking about it… I… had an idea that since… angels can be expelled from Heaven, perhaps demons could be expelled from Hell. And I think it might be the same idea."

Dean swallows and tries to unclench his jaws.

"Why didn't you tell me?" the words come out almost halting, hot tugs of anger pulsing through his chest.

"Dean…"

"No, why didn't you tell me?!" he demands, sitting up, Cas' hand sliding off his chest, and it feels cold and lonely, but the aimless anger heats him up. "Dammit, Cas, you're keeping secrets again, you both are! When are you gonna learn, man? It always leads to shit!"

He's angry, the ire blazing inside him, he's angry with Sam for trying to take on something on his own again, for keeping it a secret, but he can't blame him, he just never could… he never could blame anyone in his life. Not Sammy, not his clever little brother whom he always took care of, raised, fed, looked after. And not even their father, he never was angry with John as a kid and as a teenager, and even as an adult… it never occurred to him to be angry with his father, he was always angry _about_ him, about shit that happened to them all, about circumstances.

It was only later that he started to become angry _with_ John, only recently, really… and he still cannot be angry with Sam, he can be pissed and hurt and betrayed and angry _about_ those things, but not _with_ Sam…

And he knows letting out this anger on Cas is a ruthless, asshole thing to do, but he can't keep it in. Not after all the shit they've gone through, him and Cas. All the plots and schemes of Heaven where Cas tried to balance on the edge, his Free Will being just born, not after the crap with Crowley, not after the god stunt, not after the Purgatory, not after all that horrifying shit with Naomi and then Metatron…

Every time, _every time_ like clockwork, Cas just wanted to do the right thing, he wanted to do what he thought was best, and he kept it a secret, he went behind Dean's back, and it all went to hell. And Dean had thought they were finally past this kind of shit, that now that he and Cas… well, that now Cas would finally stop that. Stop hoarding those secrets because he thinks it's better for Dean.

He can't stand it. Not again, not from Sam and from Cas.

"Dean…" Castiel's eyes are cast so much down that the blue is completely obliterated by the short black lashes. His fingers pinch and twirl a wrinkle on the bed sheet under his hand. He looks so shut off and almost scared that Dean wants to gather him into his arms, while simultaneously a hot impulse is throbbing within him to scream and yell and berate. "Dean, there is a reason Sam never told you-"

"I don't care, Cas, you should have known better!"

"I think you should hear it," Castiel's head snaps up, his fiery blue gaze hitting Dean's almost defiantly, but most of all steadily and with immovable strength and conviction. "Because this is the only reason Sam would have kept something from you, and the only reason I agreed with him when he asked me I comply. Sam knows how much you'd wanted the Gates of Hell to be closed. He told me you wanted it more than he ever did. Than he could find within himself to want, ever. And because you were the one to tell him to stop, because you chose him over that goal, he wants to find another way to make it happen. And the reason he didn't tell you right away, is because he didn't want to give you hope before he was certain he could make it work. He didn't want you to feel like you missed the opportunity again. And I agreed, Dean," Castiel's hand reaches out and takes Dean's, the hold warm and strong and imploring, almost desperate, but not for forgiveness. "Too many things have been taken from you. Too many hopes were given you, only to be broken and crushed. And yet you carry on. You deserve… infinite rewards, more than either Sam or me can ever give you, and… there isn't… anything else, any _higher_ power to bestow you," Cas' voice hitches a little, cutting through Dean's heart as he hears the sound of a broken faith right before him. "So the least we could do, was try not to give you another false hope. We wanted to give you a _true_ hope."

Dean tries to swallow, but the tight ball in his throat is pressing tears up to his eyes as he sees the reason for the desperation he'd heard in Castiel's voice. He cannot speak again, but not even because of the constriction in his throat – it's because he doesn't have thoughts, let alone words to crudely translate them into. Castiel's hand is holding his, the touch is strong, but not a grip, giving Dean the freedom to pull away should he want to, and upon realising this, Dean is hit with a surge of defiance, the only coherent idea in his mind is _no_, he doesn't want to pull away.

So he grips Castiel's hand almost like a vice, almost not caring if he hurts him, because he can now, because Castiel isn't an angel anymore. He doesn't think about any of those things, he just holds his hand tight, tight, tighter than the blockade in his throat forbidding him from telling Castiel that he doesn't want to let go.

Seconds pass, or maybe minutes. Castiel's infinite patience thrums, mixing with the tension radiating off of him.

Finally, Dean takes a deep breath. He's probably stupid, because he can't deal with his own emotions. He never could, really – not when it actually matters. But somehow, despite all of that, Cas has always been able to understand him, from the first moment of their acquaintance. And he seems to understand even now, that Dean is equally furious, touched and remorseful.

And now also thankful.

Dean gives a harsh nod, clenching his teeth, and reaches his free hand over Cas, to switch off the small lamp on the nightstand.

"Let's just go to sleep, Cas," he means to speak in a quiet voice, but it comes out as a wet, hoarse whisper that crackles on the edges.

In the darkness, the rustle of bed sheets is loud and odd, somehow different than usually, and for a moment fear lurches through Dean, fear that he's just screwed up, that he broke everything, that Cas broke everything too. But then, in this darkness, Cas quietly, hesitantly, almost timidly, scoots closer to him, gently lining up by Dean's side, but uncertain.

Dean wraps an arm around him and roughly pulls him closer.

"I'm still pissed at both of you," he makes sure it's clear.

"…I understand."

There's peace in Cas' voice, a calm that reassures Dean that nothing is broken after all, not unless _he_ declares it so. And he can feel Cas relaxing against his side, trustingly moving closer.

And it releases something in Dean, a relief that's so deep-reaching and overwhelming that he falls asleep as immediately as if he got knocked out.

* * *

**There. I wanted to do a classic SPN emotional rollercoaster - starting off with some comedy, going through fluff, and then an angst fest *evil grin***

**Again - I am woefully sorry about all the delays! I'll do my best to update quicker, and I will reply quicker, just recently my internet is less than helpful.**

**Next chapter - the trio deals with Sam's idea about demons. Also, a wheelbarrow of Destiel fluff :)**

**Please review! I cherish each of those puppies, I do a cartwheel in my backyard whenever one of them pops into my inbox! :D**


	18. Silver lining

**Yey, an update :) I have to say though, I'm not 100% thrilled about this chapter. It was supposed to be a turmoil of intense emotions, nothing done by half, but I kinda feel I might have made it just plain weird :P**

**WARNING - excessive internal monologue content ahead. But I actually kinda like them.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy, there's a lot of Destiel here :D**

* * *

**18. Silver lining**

Something gnaws at Dean deep inside and from far away, and this is what wakes him up. This feeling, vague but persistent, stirs before his consciousness does, and he presses his face into the pillow, trying to mute it out, trying to chase it away before he remembers what it is, trying to escape before it floods him with clarity of what is wrong…

Half-consciously, instinctively, he reaches for Cas, wants to snuggle and hide in Cas' closeness to avoid remembering what is it that gnaws at him… and as his arm falls on empty, tousled sheets, the memory rushes, washing over him with cold, greyness and tiredness. His eyes fly open, and he sits up slowly, staring dumbly at the empty half of the bed.

Right.

Sam's secret, the one Cas agreed to keep from Dean… and the heartbreaking confession, one that mingled anger with remorse like a volcano spewing lava underwater, causing a coiling turmoil in the depths. Cas spoke about rewards, about how Dean supposedly deserves more than Cas and Sam can give him… and Dean's throat clenches at the mere memory of these words, at the clear, unbearable sincerity of Castiel's blue eyes. He really believed what he had said, he believed Dean deserves anything. And he believed that whatever he and Sam have to offer, is not enough.

Bullshit. Sam and Cas are something Dean _doesn't_ deserve, he keeps feeling like he has to get a grip of himself and do something right by them before they realise they'd be better off and leave, like they should.

But all that doesn't cancel out Dean's anger, the acute, hot feeling of betrayal burning deep inside his chest and sliding up the back of his throat. Again, after all those failures, after all the deaths, after all the shit that's happened, they _again_ kept something from him. And again they believed they were doing the right thing.

Something cold grips Dean's throat, while a twin touch wraps itself freezing around his heart. Cas never gets up before him, never, unless to go to the bathroom or get a book or his smartphone, and in each of those cases he immediately crawls back into bed to burrow himself in the sheets and covers beside Dean.

And now he's not here. And Dean knows exactly, why. Well, not _exactly_, but he knows it's because of last night's revelations. About more goddamn secrets. They hadn't really resolved anything. Dean still is angry, but he also wishes he hadn't yelled at Cas as much as he did. Yeah, he was a jerk, and as always, he can't take that back. And Cas hid something from him, even worse, he did it because _Sam_ asked him to, after all the repetitive secrets screw-ups, he should have known better…

With a heavy, deep breath, Dean sits up in the bed, lowering his feet onto the floor (cold, he wants one of those disgustingly domestic mats, but only for a moment, he discards the thought quickly enough to save his honour) and hides his face in his hands, rubbing them slowly over his features, trying to pry the tiredness out of his eyes. With another sigh he decides to man the hell up, and gets up, heading out of the bedroom as he is – barefoot, in just his sleeping attire of boxers and an old T-shirt.

He homes in on the kitchen, his first destination every morning after he finally decides to get out of bed, and as he approaches, he begins to follow a warm ribbon of a sweet, tempting scent that hangs in the corridors. It's sweet and thick and syrupy and makes his stomach gurgle, and he frowns, confused, because he's the one to fix breakfasts around here, with Cas helping him.

But this morning, it's different. He stands in the kitchen's doorway and stares, blankly and devoid of thought, at Cas expertly bustling around the stove, perfectly balancing the timing of three pancake pans arranged on the burners, flipping the thick, fluffy cakes as they flush into a deep golden hue. As he slides one of them off the pan onto a plate, he turns and notices Dean. His blue eyes widen for a moment, and he quickly turns around to take something from the counter – it's a plate with a stack of pancakes, still gently steaming, doused with syrup, and he places it on the table before Dean. He takes one step back, big blue eyes loyal, expectant… hesitant.

And it spears right through Dean's heart.

Pancakes are Dean's favourite breakfast. He told that once to Cas. They make him feel like he has a home, like something is normal about his life, and they're sweet and just damn delicious. And Cas made them for Dean, Cas who never gets up before him, Cas who declared one of his favourite things about being human is sleeping in late in the mornings, Cas who just like Dean doesn't know how to cope when something is cracked or broken.

This is an offering, an appeasement, a fucking _sacrifice_, and Cas is waiting to see how his gift is received, hopeful and worried.

Dean feels sick to his stomach.

And all of this is an impulse that propels him forward, abruptly his slack shock evaporates and condenses into an upsurge of violent passion, and he finally acts on it.

"Stop it, Cas," he manages in a shaky voice through clenched teeth, walking over to him, to his angel, and grabs the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels Cas exhale against his mouth, and he wraps his free arm around Cas' waist. "It's OK…" he whispers, softer now, and he hears that it also comes out a little bit pleading. Because he fucked up, too, a lot less than Cas and Sam did, but he did nonetheless. And he wants things to be settled right, just once.

Castiel's arms slowly go around his waist in return, and Dean presses their mouths together in a strong, needy kiss. He needs this closeness, he needs Castiel to understand he wants everything to be okay, and he needs the same reassurance from him. And he gets it, Cas presses even closer, his embrace around Dean tightening, the full lips pressing and moving against his own with eagerness and also heartbreaking softness. The kiss grows deeper, apologies, yearning and desperation mingling in heat and slide of tongues, and Dean feels he can't stop, he will fall apart into dust and die if he stops, and he grips Cas even tighter, determined never to let go.

So many things come back to him, the showdown with Metatron at the head of them. They may have put it behind them, but they haven't dealt with it, _Cas_ hasn't dealt with it, Dean can still see it ripping his insides apart sometimes. And now Dean wants to erase it.

He's never wanted to be powerful, not really. He's never had this drive of ambition or this greed for power, it just didn't occur to him, and if it did, he'd have felt he doesn't deserve it anyway, because he'd just screw everything up. No, power stinks, power is responsibility, and he's got enough of that already.

But for the first time in his life, he wants power, infinite power, _divine_ power, so that he can incinerate Metatron without even so much as moving a finger, power so that he can restore to Cas his drive to _keep on trying to do the right thing_, power so that he can heal Cas' heart, power so that he can take away the shadow from Sam's eyes, power so that he can wipe clean the guilt that always shrouds Sam.

Power so that he can fix everything.

And maybe he understands Castiel now. Maybe he understands the idea of trying to become god. It wasn't the temptation, it was the desperation that was the drive. Selfless, wrecking desperation of trying to put everything right, because too many things are wrong for anyone not blind or heartless to bear it.

He pulls away, his lungs burning, and he frames Cas' face with his hands, and looks at it, looks into the cosmic blue eyes and sees a horrifyingly human pain and countless unfulfilled wishes of 'if I did differently', all swimming there and all getting lost in intense, overpowering love. Love that Dean doesn't feel he deserves, not really, but love he wants and needs more than anything, so he selfishly will keep on drinking it in, soaking it up, taking it from Cas and hoping desperately that all the love he can offer in return, is worth at least something.

Cas frowns just a little, tilting his head to side, worry joining the swirl of emotions in his eyes, and he lifts a hand to Dean's cheek. There's a wetness smearing across Dean's skin as Cas strokes, caresses gently, and Dean realises he's crying. Not for himself. For Cas and for Sam, because neither of them deserve what they got.

"Cas…" he mumbles, and he's stuck. He can't say anything more. There's an emptiness in his head, and a lock on his throat. He frowns, trying to work something out, but nothing comes to him.

But then Castiel's eyes fall closed slowly, and he leans in, motion soft, fluid and airy like the light, and his lips press gently to Dean's forehead. The touch is warm and pure, cathartic like a benediction. Like Castiel is still something magically holy.

And Dean takes it, letting his mouth fall open in a shaky breath, he takes the gracious offer from Castiel, and feels a slow, breezy passage of brightness wash over his body from the inside. It doesn't make him feel better, not really. But it stops the tears and it lingers. Kind of like when the storm stops, and the sun isn't there, but it's certain that it will be, in time.

Cas pulls away, his hand gently running down Dean's cheek again, and as Dean opens his eyes, he meets the unfathomable blue gaze. And the words aren't all that important or necessary even more. Not for the two of them.

"Your pancakes are getting cold," Cas says softly and calmly, with an unshakeable steadiness.

Dean huffs out a wet chuckle.

"I love you," the words are hot in his throat, and it feels like so much more rushes out of him along with them.

Castiel smiles, bright and shining, as if he was just gifted beyond his wildest dreams.

* * *

Sam's in for one hell of a silent treatment. He smells it the moment he enters the kitchen. It actually overpowers the sweet scent of pancakes.

"Hey," he says as he stands in the doorway, and yup, there it is. Dean's tense and gruff, not looking at him very pointedly as he works his giant stack of pancakes. Cas, on the other hand, throws Sam a hesitant, concerned look, guilty and apologetic, and mumbles back a 'hello', rather quietly, apparently not to antagonise his overreacting boyfriend.

It's obvious what just happened.

Sam feels guilty, because this is what he wanted to avoid from the beginning – putting Cas in a position where he has to choose his loyalties, because a) obviously they lie with Dean ultimately, and b) it's a very sensitive subject for him to begin with. Which is why Sam was keeping his research into mass-demon-curing a secret from him as well, for as long as he could.

He presses his lips together, giving Cas a brave, calming smile, he wants him to know everything is okay as far as he is concerned.

The same can't be said for Dean, of course. If he huffs up any further, he's gonna blow.

Sam stifles back a sigh and takes his place at the table, sending another smile at Cas, grateful this time, for the plate of pancakes his friend pushes his way. Cas really has a flair for cooking, and together with Dean, who has some hidden awesome talent in the kitchen department, they make really great food. So Sam digs in with gusto, even if he usually would call this type of breakfast a heart attack waiting to happen.

The silence grows thick, heavy and aggressive, only reinforced by the sounds of forks and knives clinking on the plates. Especially when Dean stabs his pancake pieces with more force than needed. Cas slows down his eating and watches Dean's hands. Those two do get random like that, and Sam's long since learned not to feel weird about it.

At least he knows Cas is gonna be his ally when Dean finally blows up. Cas may be a warrior, but he's also – and foremost – a pacifist. He will want to end the conflict, and he will do his best. Sam makes a mental note to do something for Cas in the nearest future, get him something. Return the favour.

He also knows that if he prods Dean now, it won't be pretty. He's sick with guilt and he wants to just tell Dean that the _only_ reason he kept the whole thing from him, was because he didn't want to get his hopes up for nothing, he wants more than anything to just _talk_ to his own brother, but he forcefully keeps his mouth shut. He knows Dean, and he knows that if he starts now, he'll only make things worse and lose any chance for reconciliation for at least two weeks. Possibly a month.

So he eats in silence.

The only one unbothered by the lack of conversation, is Cas. He's got zero social sensitivity, so to him it makes no difference whatsoever if people around him are talking or choking on their own awkward silence, but he's also not happy. As he chews through his pancakes, he keeps shooting worried, sad-eyed looks between Sam and Dean, occasionally making contact with Sam and seeming to apologise for something.

Sam hopes his own silent responses make it clear he's got nothing against Cas.

Dean finishes his pancakes first and very demonstratively gets up from the table and leaves the kitchen. Sam rolls his eyes so hard it actually feels like he'd sprained something up there. Still, he knows he has to let it hang for a while before he can start diffusing the situation.

Cas finishes soon after, and tidily gathers his and Dean's dishes from the table (because naturally Sam's slob of a brother left his plate, fork and glass as they were) to carry them to the sink.

"I spoke to him," Castiel says as he returns to the table, stopping beside Sam's chair. He's chewing on his bottom lip, a worried line between his eyebrows, and his eyes bore apologetically into Sam's. "He understands, I just think he… needs some time," he finishes uncertainly. "I'm sorry, Sam," he rolls and worries the hem of his T-shirt between his fingers, and he can't seem to find the right words. "He asked me, I had to tell him. I promised myself that I would never lie to him again, to either of you. And I could keep quiet about what you told me, but he asked me, and I couldn't…" he trails off, frowning.

"Cas, it's OK.," Sam flashes him a tired smile. "Really, dude – it's OK. And I'm sorry for putting you there. And thanks for keeping quiet for so long. I really didn't wanna do that, but… I just wanted to give Dean something he _really_ can have hope for."

"I know," Castiel's hand rests on his shoulder, all uncertainty suddenly gone from the former angel, replaced by peace and stability. The weight of his hand on Sam's shoulder is solid, comforting, grounding. As if he actually still were an angel and could magically heal anything. Sam feels great comfort in this. "This is the same reason I agreed to keep it a secret. We both love him."

Sam nods awkwardly, looking away from Cas. Cas sometimes does this, he speaks simply and deeply at the same time, he hits bulls-eye with just a few plain words, but he speaks them in a way that gives them almost some sort of a mystic power.

Right now, Sam realises why that is. It's because Castiel is wise. Wise and kind and loyal, all of which gives him a deceptive appearance of occasional naivety, a fierce courage, and bluntness in some situations.

Sam nods again and pats his hand strongly over Castiel's, looking up and giving him a brief smile.

Yeah, things will get better soon. At least between the three of them, he can be certain.

* * *

After breakfast, Cas gives Dean some space, and Dean's simultaneously grateful and hollow. He's grateful because he does need a time out, he needs to be alone or he might punch the first loved one who stands in his path, because he is like that, he can't deal with his own shit and he has to wait for it to settle down and crust. Like one of those underwater volcanoes from Sam's nerdy documentary shows.

Yeah. Sam.

Dean clenches his teeth. Sam again. Always Sam. His brother is always present in him, his whole life always revolved around Sammy – watch out for Sammy, take care of Sammy. So why can't he let Sammy watch out for him?

Because it's not how it's supposed to be.

His jaws hurt, and in rough tugs he ties a protective strap of cloth around the knuckles of his left hand, then repeats the procedure more slowly and awkwardly, with his right hand as his left fumbles around it. The spacious training room is empty and only half-lit. What light is on, is grey and heavy, and feels appropriately like the almost soporific heaviness before a tardy storm. But in that soporific, there are always people who sense the energy beginning to swell and churn in the sky above, and they become filled with adrenaline, the need of action, need of motion and purpose. Dean is one of those people, while Sam belongs to the group falling asleep behind the steering wheel.

Sam again.

Dean huffs out an angry breath and tries to think about Cas – he wonders how Cas feels before a storm, now that he is human, and since storm is something like an angel's element and all. Energy, lightning, sky, wind and crackling, uncontainable power, raw, striking and splitting, and connected to the angels and their anger, as Dean had witnessed a few times.

But the thought of Cas makes him all the more bitter. With himself, mostly.

Because why the hell can't he just move on? Like a frigging adult? He understands what Cas had told him. Hell, if he'd had an idea about something that would mean the world to Cas, he'd keep it a secret until he was sure, too, he wouldn't even think twice about it (he never thinks twice about shit).

But it's different. It touches too many sore spots, too many thorns still lodged somewhere in there. It reminds Dean of all the times Cas had went behind his back, all the times he betrayed them, all the times he lied and concealed and performed moral acrobatics to try and accommodate Dean's demands with Heaven's orders.

He's always trying to do the right thing. And Dean understands, he really does. And that's why he's forgiven, absolutely and completely. But this new stunt, even if it was the least harmful and definitely all best intentions, just poked at all that stuff.

Grimly, Dean approaches one of the punching bags suspended by chains from the ceiling. It's perfectly still, and it looks like nothing could move it.

Dean makes a solid fist and delivers a blow, head on, without thinking, without any planning or choreography, just a raw release of pent up power.

The splinter of sharp pain shoots through his wrist and resonates with a crackle in his forearm.

He withdraws and goes again, this time delivering blow after blow, mapping out a sequence in his mind, after which his whole body immerses into the activity, moving on its own, muscles shifting and working, and he begins to sweat, a hot burn starting deep under his skin, and he doesn't stop, he keeps pushing himself, further and further into the strain and downright bloody _cleansing_ stream of vicious power.

He wants to get over this, he wants things to snap back into normal, and he knows _he's_ the one who's stopping it from happening. And yet he can't break this, he just can't, he can't be a fucking adult for once in his life. And he's just pissed – pissed at Sammy for deciding to make his plan a secret, pissed at Cas for sharing the secret, but most of all he's pissed at himself for letting this piss him off so much.

It's something straight out of a self-help book, break the cycle or some other shit like that, and he feels the hot surge of raw ferocity sweep through him even more, and he punches and kicks the bag more and more furiously, feeling the onset of pain burn his muscles like a spicy fire, and he needs it.

So he just has to speak to Sam, he just has to give the kid some shit, because Sam has to stop pulling stunts like that, and they can all call Kevin and start cracking this thing for real.

The idea is simple and by no means sudden. He's known this from the beginning, but only now he allows himself to really think it. It's so simple.

His breathing comes in deep, heavy pants, pumping an aching cold through his throat, and he finally stops. The silence of the empty training room is just as cold, and the noise of his own laboured breaths and the slow swinging and wobbling of the punching bag begin to close in on him as the roar of blood in his ears is beginning to wane.

Slowly, Dean sits down on the floor and runs shaky hands through his hair, noting it's become damp with sweat. Yeah. He just has to ride this thing out, is all. And he's done part of it already. And he's not really mad at Cas anymore… now it's more of a reverse ignition and he's mad at himself for being mad at him in the first place.

He listens to his own breaths, as they slowly begin to shorten and grow farther apart. It's surprisingly calming.

The door opens, and Dean looks up to see Castiel enter. He's approaching Dean slowly, but his footsteps are calm and without hesitation. He's also still wearing just his boxers and tee, and he simply sits down beside Dean, staring out ahead, nowhere in particular. It's like many, many times they've sat together just like now, silent and staring, only to exchange some burdened but important words.

Those are good memories, Dean decides. They happened in bad times, but they are good.

Hell, _Cas_ happened to him in a really shitty time, but he's the best damn thing in his sorry life!

"The pancakes were great, by the way," Dean says, his voice deep and a little husky from all the work-out, and he throws Cas a small, nonchalant smirk.

Large blue eyes glance slowly at him, ever so softly and so widely, full lips parting as Cas' head turns to face him, and Dean reaches out, resting his hand on the side of Cas' neck, running a thumb over his cheekbone, hoping that the gaze he gives Cas will convey that it's alright now.

Castiel leans into Dean's touch, not looking away from his beloved's green eyes. He can still see a flicker of rawness in them, a mixture of hurt and anger, but it's quickly seeping out, the beautiful myriad of hues in Dean's irises brightening gradually. Castiel soaks up the change, feeling a corresponding light kindle in his soul.

It's a new, precious sensation – his soul. He feels it very distinctly within himself, and it always sings most purely and expressly when Dean is with him.

His face must reflect his emotions, because an expression of tenderness crosses Dean's eyes, flooding his features, before his beloved frowns, nodding once with a small smile.

"It's OK., Cas," he murmurs. "OK?"

And Castiel understands perfectly what Dean is asking through this simple word. He's asking if Castiel agrees for nothing to be broken, if he agrees to let go of his own guilt, and in return absolve Dean from whatever sore conscience he may be having.

"Yes," he replies simply and steadily, his coarse voice filling the small distance between him and Dean.

"OK.," Dean murmurs, and leans in, Castiel's eyelids fluttering closed on a blissful reflex of trust and intimacy.

Dean's lips are scorching hot as they press against his softly, and Castiel welcomes the kiss eagerly, breathing a soft sigh as he turns his body and leans into his beloved. Dean's other hand runs down his side and wraps around his waist, while their mouths mould together, lips gliding slowly and tenderly, teeth gently nipping, and Castiel runs his tongue over Dean's lower lip, collecting the delectable flavour from the supple flesh, and Dean's mouth opens slowly and wide, and Castiel is more than eager to take the invitation, his tongue sweeping inside, meeting with Dean's. Dean moans quietly, and Castiel feels a tight ache of pleasure in the pit of his stomach.

As they pull away for breath, Castiel takes a moment to regard Dean, taking in the darkened green eyes and glossed, reddened lips, a flush merging with the freckles on his cheeks. The dampness of drying sweat brings a deeper hue to his hair, and Castiel takes his time, allowing his eyes to rove pleasurably over Dean's body, absorbing the tempting shapes, the delectable lines, curves and shapes of his muscles and enticingly built silhouette. The worn cotton of his T-shirt is also dampened with perspiration, plastered to his skin, not hiding the perfect sculpt of Dean's back.

Castiel loves all of Dean, in terms of psyche, emotions, body and the dimension of senses such as smell and sound and taste, his love for his Mate soaks through every single atom that builds his physicality and through the entirety of Dean's soul and character, but there are certain specifics that Castiel favours in Dean especially. There had always been traits of body and character alike that he's found especially pleasing about Dean from the start of their acquaintance. He admired and respected his courage and loyalty, and found soothing enjoyment in the hue of his eyes and the dusting of freckles across his cheeks.

Over time, his attachment to those favourite traits grew in solidity and passion. And with the commencement of their romantic relationship, he'd discovered new favourites in Dean, though particularly in terms of body. In terms of soul and character, he's known Dean completely for a long time, but in terms of body and physical pleasure, the initial weeks of their relationship were an overwhelming spree of delight, desire and hunger of one discovery after another. He learned with dizzying pleasure and absolute abandon, swept away by revelations of how powerful his attraction to Dean truly was.

And so, beside Dean's green eyes and the pattern of sand-like freckles spread on his face, chest and shoulders, beside the curve of Dean's rear and beside the softness and warmth of his lips, Castiel particularly loves Dean's back as well.

Its shape, slim and hard planes, the texture of skin and permanent heat are all delectable and intensely enticing, always driving Castiel's libido up.

So now he reaches for the hem of Dean's T-shirt and pulls it up, tugging it off over Dean's head, his beloved eagerly complying, raising his arms, and at last Dean's torso is revealed, and Castiel can move even closer, letting his hands roam down Dean's back, his eagerly receptive sense of touch soaking up the feel of Dean's hot skin and the glorious shape. Dean's eyes become hooded under Castiel's avaricious, sensual touches, his breaths hotter and quicker as he moves closer, soft lips parted, and Castiel takes him in.

"You're beautiful, beloved," he breathes out in a rough, raspy voice, and it refers in equal measures to his physical desire for Dean, as well as his emotional fidelity and admiration of character.

A hot, red blush floods Dean's cheeks, up to the tips of his ears, and Castiel feels himself grinning, and he leans in to pepper small kisses over Dean's freckles, tasting his flushed skin.

"Cas…" Dean's whisper huffs hotly over the shell of Castiel's ear, spilling a shiver across his skin, while the tight pleasure in his stomach tugs responsively at hearing his own name.

Dean presses even closer, his lips brushing a kiss over Castiel's own cheek, and then he pulls away minutely only to shift his position, kneeling on the floor, and lean into Castiel once more, his hot, slow breath washing over sensitive skin. Dean kisses his neck, and then his hot, wet tongue lightly traces the edge of Castiel's ear. Castiel trembles, the heat in his stomach expanding in sharp flashes up into his chest and down to his groin, and he breathes a needy moan, his blunt fingernails digging into the flesh of Dean's hard back. He can hear his beloved's own groan of pleasure, and he pulls his hands down, letting his nails scrape down Dean's flesh with just the right amount of pressure that pulls a prolonged, distracted moan from Dean's throat, just as Dean is closing his mouth over his earlobe. The moan reverberates through Castiel's hypersensitive flesh, shooting a sharp, piercing crackle of pleasure down his body, and he keens, his vision blurring for a moment.

Dean's mouth release his ear, the sudden coolness against his wet flesh sending another tremor through him, and the next moment Dean is kissing him again, with need, desire and greed, one of his hands tangling in Castiel's hair and pulling, just the way it pleases them both. Castiel moans, pressing himself closer, and Dean's free arm reaches behind him, sneaking under his thigh and pulling, hoisting Castiel up so he nearly straddles Dean's lap. Dean's touch on the underside of his thigh is a scattering of almost cold sparks into his flesh, and the subsequent pressure of their groins pressing together is both a liberation and unbearable tightening of a confine that seems to clench around Castiel's desire churning through all his body as it seeks a way out, wreaking a burning, pleasuring havoc in its wake.

His hands continue to glide over Dean's back, rapacious and insatiable, each blissful shape traced stirring an overwhelming craving for even more, and the fact that he can feel Dean losing himself into his roaming hands only stokes the fire inside him even further. Dean's arm wraps itself around behind Castiel's back, pulling him even closer and firmer as their kisses continue to meld and intersperse, mingling with hot breaths and half-managed moans.

In a slow, worshipful glide, he moves his hands down Dean's sides to find the waistband of his boxers, but Dean's fingers leave his hair, his free hand grabbing one of Castiel's as his beloved pulls away from a kiss.

"No," he breathes huskily, and Castiel is mesmerised by the thin, narrow ring of verdant green surrounding the ravenously opened, wide blackness of his pupils. "Let me…"

Before Castiel can react, Dean's hands support his back and expertly lower him, laying him back onto the cool floor, and he gasps as it makes contact with his heated flesh.

This is going to be make up sex, he knows it, but he also knows it is going to be different than their usual bouts of highly passionate reconciliatory lovemaking after petty arguments (which, he has to admit, he sometimes starts just for the benefit of the pleasure of making up, but he knows Dean does the same). He sees it in Dean's eyes, and he also observes that Dean intends to pleasure him foremost, and he himself wants to do the same to Dean, for probably the exact same reasons.

"Dean, I want to-" he tries to voice his conflicted wants, but Dean silences him with a kiss, an action he would have found annoying if it wasn't so pleasurable.

"Nuh-uh," Dean grins as he pulls away just a few meagre centimetres, his breath heating Castiel's wet lips in pliant, teasing waves.

"Dean," he huffs back, lifting one hand to card it through the short, soft strands of Dean's hair, enraptured as he watches the shift of colours that follows the bent angles of reflected light – brown, chestnut, red, sandy blonde… so beautiful. He pulls Dean back down for another kiss, before trying once again. "Dean, I want to, too."

It may sound incomplete and incoherent, but he knows his beloved understands it instantly, and this knowledge is reaffirmed with a nod, eager anticipation lighting up Dean's eyes, bringing out the succulent green in the sinfully thin rings of blue framing his pupils.

"OK.," Dean breathes out in a hoarse whisper, and Castiel's heartbeat accelerates even further as he relishes his own openness as he's laid out beneath Dean who hovers over him before pulling his T-shirt off of him in expert moves, Castiel lifting his arms obediently.

Dean shifts, straddling Castiel's hips, and they both moan as their erections press together, Castiel's back arching in a supple reflex as he pushes his pelvis up against Dean's. His beloved's eyes roam hungrily and worshipfully over his exposed torso, hands following the path of the gaze, and Castiel moans again, once more arching into the touch, into Dean's skilful hands as they glide and brush over his skin.

"You're so damn gorgeous…" Dean's voice is a raw almost-whisper that flees his throat on a breath, and Castiel opens his eyes to peer at him, and a small, hitched whimper escapes his clenched throat at the sight of want and overwhelming admiration in Dean's gaze. But then his eyes squeeze closed again as Dean slowly, deliberately rocks his hips into Castiel's. "So damn gorgeous…"

Dean swoops down, trailing kisses, nips and licks down Castiel's torso, marking a neat and straight path of Castiel's undoing, before Dean's teeth scrape against the waistband of his boxers. Then the fabric is being tugged down, and Castiel lifts his hips on a greedy instinct, facilitating the removal of the last piece of clothing from his body. And then he feels a moan wrenching itself deep from within his throat as Dean's mouth closes around him right where he needs and wants him the most.

Yes, all arguments, petty or grand, do have a very bright silver lining.

* * *

**Well, this chapter was also supposed to feature Sam and Dean having a chat, but Dean's internal musings and the Destiel got away from me :P But damn it, I love digging into those boys' heads.**

**Next chapter will be lighter and with more humour, I promise. Also, I've estimated that this story will be 22-25 chapters long in total :)**

**Next chapter - winter clothes shopping for Cas, some Kevin appearance, and Crowley makes a cameo, too.**

**Please review, those balls of fluffy delight are the light of my recently busy days! (And dare I say they make me write faster...)**


End file.
